Gotham Through the Ages, Part I
by Christine M. Greenleaf
Summary: First in a series of three stories which transports familiar characters into different historical settings, exploring their relationships throughout the centuries and if anything ever changes. First up, a tale of Victorian Gotham City and its experience of the Batman and his Gallery of Rogues.
1. Chapter 1

**Gotham Through the Ages**

**Gotham City – 1888**

In the gaslit streets of Gotham City, the mist rose up from the river, and the fog dimmed the light from the lamps, making the roads hazy and slick. The bustling traffic of horsedrawn carriages and pedestrians had died down, and now the moon shone faintly through the clouds, managing to penetrate the thick fog even less than the streetlamps. The air was heavy and close and wet, and the night was chilly.

"Well, what did you think of the play, Harvey?" asked Pamela Isley, as she and hundreds of other wealthy patrons left the theater to head out into the cold.

Harvey Dent snorted, lighting up a cigarette. "Load of rubbish!" he laughed. "If I had to spend another minute watching that ham Karlo flail and lurch his way all over the stage, I would have gone crazy!"

"He wasn't that bad, Harvey," chided Pamela Isley. "What did you think of it, Bruce?"

Bruce Wayne was silent, adjusting his cape as they exited the theater. "I think…the premise of the story was very interesting."

"What? A man who can split himself into two halves?" chuckled Dent.

"No. A man with a soul that is split in two," he murmured. "Leading a double life. One full of the routine drudgery of society and social obligations…and the other free."

He looked up at the clouded moon. "The idea…that we all wear masks of one kind or another," he murmured. "And that we never know each other's true face."

"Yes, load of rubbish, like I said!" laughed Dent. "All this monster mumbo jumbo is not for me, I'm afraid. Let the weaker minded keep their fantasy. I find reality, with all its real pleasures, much more enjoyable," he murmured, kissing Pamela Isley tenderly.

"I'll hail a cab," said Bruce, heading to the curb and raising his hand.

"It's Bruce Wayne, isn't it?" said a voice.

He turned to see a tall, thin man wearing spectacles and a formal suit standing behind him. "Er…yes," he said. "Forgive me, I don't think I've had the pleasure…"

"Doctor Jonathan Crane," he said, holding out his hand and shaking Bruce's firmly. "I work at Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane."

"Of course, Dr. Crane, I've read your work on the subject of fear as a criminal deterrent," said Bruce. "In my hobby as an amateur criminologist, it's proved most helpful."

"I am glad to hear it," replied Crane, smiling at him. "If you'll forgive me, I had the box across from yours during tonight's production and…well…I couldn't help noticing your face."

"What about my face?" asked Bruce, puzzled.

"It expressed a great fascination with the play," he said. "A more than usual interest."

Bruce shrugged. "I cannot deny that I found the ideas incredibly stimulating. Is there any…scientific basis for such a theory, do you suppose?"

"What, in the duality of mankind's soul?" said Crane. "Yes, quite a bit, in fact. There are many types of lunatics who portray an outward stability that hides an inner turmoil. Indeed, not just lunatics, although in my work I come into frequent contact with them more than anyone else. One could say that a lunatic is man's personality completely free of any moral and social conventions, like the Mr. Hyde in this play tonight. He is what we all would be, if we did not hold ourselves in check. Or perhaps, if we were not bound by the chains of sanity."

"Were you gents wanting a cab?" asked a voice. They turned to see a man dressed in a shabby purple tailcoat and top hat, standing by a horse-drawn hansom.

"How dare you interrupt a conversation between your betters?" demanded Crane of the man, furiously.

"It's all right, Dr. Crane, we'll continue this discussion another time," said Bruce. "Come to Wayne Manor for dinner sometime, won't you? Here's my card."

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne, I will," said Crane, tipping his hat. "Good evening to you."

He glared at the cab driver and sauntered off. "Just wait a moment while I fetch my friend," said Bruce, heading back over to Dent and Isley.

"No hurry," muttered the man in purple, petting his horse as he tried to control the burning fury in his green eyes. "Take your time."

He opened the door for Isley and held out a hand to her. She took one look at the dirty, tattered white gloves he wore, and then made a point of helping herself into the cab. The man in purple shut the door when they were all inside, and then climbed back up on the driver's seat, cracking his whip over the horse slightly harder than necessary.

The cab drew up in front of Wayne Manor. The man in purple opened the door and stood by wordlessly as Bruce Wayne said his goodbyes, and watched as his butler opened the front door for him.

His second stop was at an equally luxurious residence. He was about to open the door again, but Mr. Dent beat him to it, practically falling out of the coach with Miss Isley in his arms.

"Harvey, you can't stay!" she giggled. "What if someone sees you? Think of my reputation!"

"Well, who's gonna see us on a night like this?" he chuckled, kissing her. "I'll slip out early tomorrow. Nobody will ever know."

"Except my servants," she retorted. "And this man," she said, gesturing at the man in purple.

Dent snorted. "Who cares?" he laughed. "Who are they gonna tell? And who's gonna listen to them if they do? They're not important, with their meaningless little lives. Who cares what they know?"

She giggled. "All right, you naughty boy! But don't you dare tell anyone!"

"That'll be ten, sir," muttered the man in purple.

"Oh yes…of course," said Dent, feeling around in his pockets. "Uh…that's eight, so that'll do, won't it? All I have with me anyway, and you certainly can't expect the lady to pay. Good night."

He took Isley's arm and they both entered the house, with the man in purple staring after them. He pocketed the money and climbed slowly back on the cab. It was barely worth being out on a night like this. He was chilled to the bone, and barely earning a living, let alone this month's rent.

It had been a long, disappointing day, and the man in purple had reached a decision. He had spent most of his life working as a cabbie around Gotham, ferrying around the rich and the snobbish and barely making ends meet. When he did earn enough to treat himself, he spent the rare night enjoying a few drinks at his local pub, and that was where he had met Mr. Valestra.

Mr. Valestra had said he could use a man like him, and promised him a substantial amount of money if he would do a job for him. The only catch was that the job was not strictly legal, which was why Mr. Valestra was willing to pay so much for a getaway driver. He wanted him to be that driver. The man had considered, weighed down with thoughts of conscience and ethics. But in that moment, he had made his decision. He was going to see Mr. Valestra tonight.

He drew up his horse and car in front of his lodgings, stopping in to get a few things. He pushed open the door, underneath the sign which read _Quinzel's Hot Pies_.

"Oh…Mr. Napier!" stammered Miss Quinzel, smiling as he entered. "Good evening!"

"Good evening, Miss Quinzel," he said, smiling back.

"You're back early," she commented. "Business slow tonight?"

"As usual," he sighed.

"Well, it is for me too," she said, smiling shyly at him. "So at least we're unprofitable together."

He wanted to say something to her – she looked so pretty, as she always did, her blonde hair put up in pigtails, and her apron covering her red and black dress. He had wanted to say something to her from the moment they met, but she might consider him a terrible cad – after all, she was his landlady, and probably half his age. It had the potential to be an awkward situation, and so he had held his tongue. He didn't want her to think he was trying to take advantage of her.

Instead he just smiled, heading for the stairs in the back of the shop that led to his room. Inside, he headed over to a small chest in the corner and took out a cane, with a blade concealed inside it, just in case of trouble.

He glanced at his reflection for a moment, trying to fully comprehend what he was about to do. He was about to aid in the perpetration of a crime. He had always been a good, decent, hard-working man, and now he was going to break the law for profit.

He paused to consider whether this was right, but his mind was made up. Something about the events of tonight had stung him, and he wasn't going to be trampled and dismissed any longer. He was going to make them pay.

He opened the door to his room and met Miss Quinzel, who had been about to knock. "Oh…I was wondering, Mr. Napier, if…since you're back…you'd…like to join me for a cup of tea, in the parlor," she stammered.

"That's very kind, Miss Quinzel," he said, sincerely. "But I have someplace to be tonight. I just stopped in to pick something up."

"Of course," she said, hastily. "Some other time, perhaps."

"I certainly hope so," he said, gazing at her. He wondered how far he could press his courage tonight – if he could commit a crime, surely he could tell this woman how he felt about her?

"Miss…Quinzel…I…I have something I'd like to…say to you…" he stammered.

"Yes?" she said, eagerly.

"I…that is…you…I wish to tell you, that I…"

"Yes?" she pressed.

He stared into her beautiful face and lost his nerve. "Nothing," he said hastily, heading for the stairs. "Nothing. I'll…see you soon, Miss Quinzel."

He had nothing to offer her, after all – no prospects, no future. But that would all change after tonight. After tonight he would tell her how he felt.

He pulled up the cab at the entrance to the chemical factory. "Jack, we were worried you wouldn't show!" said Mr. Valestra, smiling through his cigarette smoke.

"I'm a man of my word, Mr. Valestra," he muttered, climbing down from the cab.

"Good man!" said Mr. Valestra, clapping him on the back. "And you'll be rewarded for it, too! Quarter share in this operation, just like I promised."

He turned to two of his henchmen. "Get inside and take care of the guards. Jack, you stick with me – we'll need all of us to haul the loot out."

They waited a few moments until one of henchmen waved that the coast was clear. And then Jack followed him inside, nervously tapping his cane on the ground. The factory was dark, the only light being the strange, green glow emanating from the vats of chemicals below them.

"What's in there?" he asked, looking down.

"Who knows?" asked Mr. Valestra, heading over to the office and watching as his men pried the lock off the safe. "Stuff people will pay a lotta money for, though."

Jack saw the bodies of the guards, lying in pools of their own blood outside the office, and repressed a shudder, trying not to think about their families.

"Now stop asking questions and start hauling," Mr. Valestra snapped, interrupting Jack's thoughts by dumping a bag of money into his arms. Jack stared at it – he had never seen so much wealth in all his life. Instantly his moral qualms were put aside, and he headed out of the factory.

They deposited dozens of sacks into Jack's cab. "You get the last one, Jack – I'm gonna make sure we don't leave any evidence," said Mr. Valestra, pouring whiskey from a hip flask along the wooden floor of the office.

Jack lifted the last bag and headed for the platform over the vat while Mr. Valestra stuck a match, dropped it onto the ground, and followed him out. The flame caught instantly, sending the office up in a blaze.

Jack had glanced back to look at the fire, then turned back around, and gasped as his heart leapt to his throat. The light from the fire illuminated a huge, black, caped figure standing in front of him. The shadow on the wall cast by the flames made the figure resemble a giant, hellish bat.

"Great God Almighty!" gasped Jack in horror.

The figure was silent and swift, knocking the money from Jack's hand and then punching him, sending him flying against the railing. Valestra reached for his revolver, but that was kicked out of his hand before he could fire it. The figure came at him again, but Valestra ducked, punching him in the face and knocking him back.

The blaze from the office had caught the ceiling, and tongues of flame licked at the wood as it began to crack. Pieces of timber crashed down around Jack, one of them colliding with part of the railing and sending it hurtling into the chemicals below. He looked up to where Valestra and the figure still struggled, and then saw Valestra's fallen pistol not far from his grasp.

He reached for it, aiming it at the figure's masked head, his hands shaking in terror. But before he could pull the trigger, the figure heard him cocking the gun and reacted instantly, kicking the revolver from his hand and then knocking him backward to where the rail had fallen, leaving the edge unprotected.

Jack felt himself teetering and tried to regain his balance, but it was no good. He slipped from the platform, grasping futilely at the rails. The masked figure saw him and shot a hand out to grab him…but it was too late. With a scream, Jack plunged down into the swirling green chemicals and disappeared without a trace.


	2. Chapter 2

"Good news, sir. You've made the papers," said Alfred, as Bruce Wayne slowly pushed open the secret entrance to the Batcave. "Though they're reporting you as a sort of mythical, penny dreadful figure akin to the likes of Spring-Heeled Jack…"

"Please, Alfred, I don't care about publicity right now," muttered Bruce, taking off his Batman mask and throwing it down.

"Is something wrong, sir?" asked Alfred, instantly concerned.

"Yes," murmured Bruce, burying his face in his hands. "I think…a man is dead because of me."

Alfred was silent. "I'm truly very sorry, sir," he murmured. "But you knew this was dangerous work…"

"I never wanted to kill anyone!" shouted Bruce. "You know I don't believe in killing, Alfred! But now I'm a murderer, as certainly as if I'd stabbed that man in the heart!"

Alfred tried to console him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "What happened, sir?" he asked, gently.

"It was an accident," whispered Bruce. "I never meant for anyone to die. I'm not a murderer – I just wanted to help…"

But as he said it, he knew in his heart that wasn't strictly true. His motivation for being Batman was part altruism, and part selfishness.

He had lost his parents at a young age to crime in Gotham City – Thomas and Martha Wayne had been murdered in front of his eyes one night while the family had been walking home from the theater. Bruce had been left in Alfred's care, who brought him up as a wealthy young man about town, as was befitting his fortune and position in society. Only Bruce had never been satisfied with the life of a playboy philanthropist. He couldn't bear to waste his life on trivialities and frivolous pleasures when he knew crime and harm were being perpetrated against other innocent victims every day. And so partly from his own impulses, and partly from a desire to make a real difference to his city, he had decided to combat crime in the form of a costumed vigilante, inspired by the stories he had read of colorful characters and heroes in penny fiction. He had only put on the guise of the Batman a few months ago, and he was still getting into the swing of things, but so far he had been very pleased with his progress – he had broken up quite a few fights, and interrupted several robberies. But this was the first time someone had been seriously injured because of his actions, and it suddenly brought home to Bruce just what exactly he was doing.

He was dressing up in a costume and acting like crime-fighting was a game, like in the stories he had read. But he hadn't fully appreciated the real danger he put not only himself, but other innocent people in. And for the first time he wondered if the Batman had been such a good idea after all. For the first time, he re-examined his motivations for creating the figure, and found them full of petty selfishness, personal boredom, and thinly disguised vengeance masquerading as selfless justice.

He stared down at the Batman mask. "Alfred, would you please destroy this?" he asked, holding it up to him.

"Destroy it, sir?" repeated Alfred, shocked. "But why?"

"Just…destroy all of it," Bruce muttered, pulling off his makeshift utility belt and throwing it on the ground. "Nobody else is going to be hurt because of me. I should just stick to going to parties and society functions, not meddle in things that don't concern me."

"Sir, I'm sure you'll get better with practice," encouraged Alfred. "And you mustn't give up. You've done so much good for this city already."

"Oh, perhaps I've stopped a few crimes," sighed Bruce. "But I've taken a man's life, Alfred. I've done to him what someone else did to my parents…if that man has family, they will be suffering as I suffered at their loss. I had no right to inflict that kind of pain on anyone. And I will never forgive myself for it."

He glanced at the newspaper. "I'm not Spring-Heeled Jack," he muttered. "This isn't some silly story or game. This is real life. And there is no place for costumed vigilantes in a rational, sane, orderly world. I can't imagine what I must have been thinking. The last thing people need in this age of wonders and modern technology is to cling on to vague superstitions and shadowy heroes."

He turned to look at Alfred. "The Batman is dead," he murmured. "And the duality of my soul must be reconciled in Bruce Wayne. It must be content with that. The Batman was…my Mr. Hyde, Alfred. He was a guise I could put on to conceal myself, or perhaps…to reveal my true self, that I dare not reveal to anyone else. The Batman let me be free of responsibility and guilt. But I cannot be free of that anymore. Dr. Jekyll tried and failed to destroy Mr. Hyde. I cannot fail to destroy mine."

He headed for the stairs. "Destroy it all, Alfred. And then send a telegram to Arkham Asylum, care of Dr. Jonathan Crane, and invite him over for dinner tomorrow. I would like to have a word with him."

…

_The_ _Cat's Cradle_ was a tavern and brothel located on the waterfront of the Gotham River, catering mostly to sailors putting into port and other locals who lived along the dock. On this particular cold night, clouds of smoke, warm bodies, and the consumption of liquor kept the outside chill at bay as people lounged about, talking, laughing, and drinking. Fingers of icy mist from the river rose up and pressed against the window, unable to get in.

A tall, thin man dressed in purple limped slowly toward the tavern door, leaning heavily on a cane and dripping wet. He panted, taking deep breaths and gulping down air, and then exhaling it in a low, continuous chuckle.

He pushed open the door to _The_ _Cat's Cradle_ and walked in. Curious glances were thrown in his direction, mostly because his face was concealed by his hat and the muffler he wore around his neck, everything hidden but a huge, strange smile.

He made his way to the bar. "Glass of whiskey, please," he murmured.

The bartender, who was also the owner and proprietor, a Miss Selina Kyle, looked at the man suspiciously, and then poured him a glass. "Two fifty," she muttered, shoving it at him.

He fished around in his pockets for some bills and coins, which he threw on the counter. The bills were also dripping wet. "Been for a dip in the river, huh?" asked Selina, shaking them out. "Nasty night for a swim."

"Yes," the man agreed, sipping his drink and smiling. "Yes, it is."

"Kinda a crazy thing to do," she continued.

He chuckled, a strange, unnatural sound. "Yes, it is!" he repeated, grinning at her.

"Oh, what a nice, big smile you've got, sir," said a woman lounging against the bar. "Fancy buying a girl a drink?"

He turned to smile at her. "Why not?" he asked.

Selina gave the woman a warning glance but poured her a drink. There was something very strange about this man, and Selina personally didn't like him. He gave her the creeps, especially with that odd smile of his.

Not that the woman seemed to notice, draping herself over him instantly and beginning to whisper something in his ear. "Maybe, when we've finished our drinks, we can get to know each other a little better, sir," she purred. "Would you like that?"

He said nothing, but chuckled, a strange, unnatural sound that made Selina shudder. The last she saw of the bizarre man was him heading toward the door with the woman on his arm, but then she had other customers to serve, and thought no more about him.

"This here looks nice and private," murmured the woman, pulling the strange man into an alley. "Someplace where we won't be interrupted, eh?"

He just grinned at her. "You really do have a nice, happy smile, sir," she said, smiling back. "You wanna see something that's not gonna just make your smile grow?"

She reached up to pull down her top, and the man approached her, fingering his cane, the same smile beaming out from his hidden face. "Now I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours," she giggled, about to lift her skirts.

There was a flash of metal, and then a blade was plunged into her repeatedly. The man had his hand clamped around her mouth, stifling her screams and muting her struggle as he stabbed her over and over, laughing wildly to himself. The laugh turned into a hysterical crescendo until the girl's body slid to the ground. Then he dropped to his knees by it, bringing the blade to her face.

"Let's give you a nice, happy smile too!" he chuckled. "And leave you for him to find! This is all because of him, after all! And won't he be pleased about what he's done! He ruins my life, so now I ruin everyone else's! I make them as happy as I am forever now!"

He carved the face up until it had a horrible, mocking smile cut into it, and then he straightened up. "All thanks to him!" he chuckled, heading back out into the foggy, deserted night. "All thanks to the Batman!"


	3. Chapter 3

"And he's been missing three days, you say?" asked Inspector Gordon.

"Yes, sir, that's right," said Harleen Quinzel, playing with her hands nervously as she sat in front of the fire in the parlor of her pie shop.

"Has he ever disappeared for long periods of time like this before?" asked Gordon, taking notes on a pad of paper. His deputy, Detective Bullock, sat next to him, stuffing pie after pie down his throat.

"Well…I've not known Mr. Napier that long…only a few months," she replied. "But no, not to my knowledge. He always comes home every night – late, sometimes, but always every night…"

"And just why did you call the police about this?" interrupted Bullock. "We've got real crimes to deal with, y'know. A whore was murdered and cut up down by the docks the other night, and I think a murder, even of a tart, deserves more police time and attention than this joke about a man staying out late. He's probably just at the pub, darling, or found himself a new bit of skirt and taken up with her."

"Well…Mr. Napier is my tenant," she replied, slowly. "He rents the room upstairs. Business is slow, and I need the rent money he gives me to pay for the upkeep of my shop. If he's missing, he can't pay the rent money, and then I can't pay for the upkeep of my shop…"

"And that's all, is it?" demanded Bullock.

"Yes, that's all," she replied, slightly puzzled. "Why do you ask?"

Bullock stood up, taking another pie and biting into it, scattering crumbs around the room. "Nice place you got here, Mrs. Quinzel," he said, casually. "Just you alone, is it?"

"Yes, and it's Miss Quinzel," she retorted.

"I see," he said, giving the inspector a knowing look. "And you make ends meet by…selling pies, do you?"

"Yes. The business was a gift from my father – after he died two years ago, I inherited it," she replied.

"I see, Miss," he said. "So you're here all day long selling your pie…and was Mr. Napier a good friend of yours? Was he ever a customer?"

She stared at him in confusion. "He would…occasionally buy my pies, yes."

"I bet he did, Miss Quinzel," said Bullock, grinning unpleasantly.

"Just what exactly are you implying, Detective Bullock?" she demanded.

"Oh, c'mon, darling," he said, leaning forward. "A young, unmarried woman, running a business all on her own? Doesn't make sense, does it? Women aren't capable of things like that – they ain't got a head for business. So common sense tells me that you're selling something else here besides pies. Maybe your own pie, if you understand my meaning."

She stared at him in shock. "How dare you…" she began.

"Miss Quinzel, you can't blame him," interrupted Gordon, standing up. "Any unmarried woman who rents a room to a man in her own home is very unlikely to be a lady of virtue. It would help us greatly if you were honest with us about your profession, and your and Mr. Napier's relationship."

"I am being honest!" she snapped. "Maybe in your world women can afford to be picky about renting rooms to people, but here we've got to take what we can get, man or woman, whoever can pay! And Mr. Napier is nothing if not a gentleman, and nothing improper has gone on between us whatsoever! I called you here to investigate his disappearance, not to be bullied and humiliated and insulted!"

The two policemen shared another look. "Well, we'll look into it, Miss Quinzel," said Gordon, heading for the door. "In the meantime, if you have any further information or testimony to give us, please don't hesitate to get in contact."

They left the shop, shutting the door behind them. Harley glared after them, and then seized her rolling pin and a ball of dough, and began beating it violently. Angry tears stung her eyes. She was used to lewd remarks and comments being made to her by men, but not by men she had called on to help her. Not by men in authority – they were meant to be better than that.

She wiped her tears away firmly – she didn't want to give them any power by letting them upset her. But if she was honest, it wasn't just their remarks that had upset her. It was Mr. Napier's disappearance. And the loss of rent money wasn't the only reason she had called the police.

She had been wanting to voice her feelings toward him for some time now, but it would have been improper for a lady to say such things, if indeed they were even reciprocated by him. She suspected they were, but Mr. Napier was too shy and polite to ever say anything.

But she had been tempted countless times to tell him, that she had spent her waking hours thinking about him, that from the moment she had met him, his very presence had made her happier than anything else in the world ever could have. That despite the awkward situation, of her being his landlady, and of him being considerably older than her, she just wanted to show him that she loved him, and she didn't care what anyone else thought about it.

But she didn't tell him those things. And now it was possible that she would never get a chance to again. He might be gone forever.

She had started crying again, and grew furious when she heard the bell at the front of the shop ring, indicating that someone had entered. "Shop's closed!" she snapped, angrily wiping away tears again.

She heard footsteps approach the counter, and stormed into the shop, intending to release her fury on the customer. "You deaf?! I said…"

But she stopped yelling, stunned, as her eyes fell upon a man in a shabby purple tailcoat and top hat, and a bright smile beaming out from his concealed face. There was something incredibly familiar about those clothes, and that smile…

"It's Miss Quinzel, isn't it?" he asked, in a familiar voice.

"Y…yes, that's right," she stammered. She was about to venture the question of the man's identity – he resembled Mr. Napier, but seemed somehow, inexplicably different now.

"I'm a stranger to Gotham, and I was wondering if you had a room to rent here," he continued, quickly.

"Oh…I…uh…" she stammered, taken aback. Apparently the man wasn't Mr. Napier – she had just wanted him to be. And she didn't want to give up hope of Mr. Napier's return just yet, but on the other hand, if this man wanted to pay for the room, it could well save her business. She really did need the money, and desperate times called for desperate measures.

"Yes, sir, I do," she said at last.

"Is it available immediately?" he asked. "I'm looking for someplace to stay that's…fairly private, and this location seems ideal."

"Oh yes, there's privacy here, sir!" she laughed. "Business is very slow lately, so not many people coming and going. Not many people coming and going anyway, since this Batman started appearing. He's bad for business, but I don't imagine he cares."

The man chuckled. "No, I don't imagine he does."

"And yes, the room's available immediately. It was left completely furnished by the…last tenant," continued Harley, unable to maintain her fake smile when she thought about Mr. Napier again.

"What happened to him?" asked the strange man. "Why would he leave without taking his things?"

"I…I don't know, sir," she stammered.

"Don't you care?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, I do," she whispered. "More than anyone can imagine."

She turned away from him. "Do allow me to show you the room," she said. "It's just up the stairs."

"Who was this last tenant of yours?" asked the man casually, following her up the stairs.

"He was a Mr. Napier, sir, a Mr. Jack Napier," she murmured. "A man of impeccable character and honesty. A good soul, and a true gentleman."

"Indeed?" said the man. "I would expect a man like that to take rooms in a more wealthy area."

"Well, he was a cab driver, sir, so not particularly wealthy," she replied. "But he had the manners of a gentleman, and the soul of an angel."

"You speak very highly of him," murmured the man.

"Yes," she agreed. "He deserves it. A wonderful, handsome man."

"You found him handsome?" he murmured.

"Yes," she retorted, defensively. "But look, nothing funny went on between us. Just because he was an unmarried man, and I'm an unmarried woman under the same roof, that doesn't mean we were doing immoral things together. People need to stop making assumptions, and projecting their own filthy minds onto others."

"I quite agree, Miss Quinzel," he murmured. "Although I'm sure he found you…an equally attractive woman."

"Well, it doesn't matter if he did now," she said. "He's gone now."

She pushed open the door to the room, wiping the tears from her eyes. "The rent's a hundred a month, first month paid in advance," she said, trying to focus back on business. "I hope that's agreeable to you."

"Quite agreeable, Miss Quinzel," he replied, scanning the room and smiling. "This whole situation…is quite agreeable," he said, with a low chuckle, removing his hat. She stared at him – the removal of the hat had revealed a shock of green hair, which contrasted luridly with his bone white skin and bright, red lips. But it was his green eyes that surprised her the most…they were so similar to...

"Do you find my appearance shocking?" he asked, smiling at her.

She shook her head. "No…just…familiar, is all. But where are my manners, sir? Can I get you a cup of tea?"

"That would be lovely, Miss Quinzel," he murmured.

She disappeared, returning several minutes later carrying a tray. "I didn't catch your name, sir," she said, placing it down at the table in front of the fire that the man had started in the grate.

"I didn't give it," he replied, taking a seat across from her, still smiling.

"Well…it would be nice to know who my new lodger is," she said, slowly.

He said nothing, just continued to smile at her, which unnerved her slightly. She began pouring milk and sugar into his teacup before she paused. "Sorry, sir, do you take milk and sugar?" she asked. "Only that's how I was used to making tea…for Mr. Napier…"

"That's perfect, thank you," he said, taking the cup from her. He sipped it in silence while she poured hers, not saying a word.

"If you don't mind my asking, sir, what happened to your…face?" she stammered. "Some sort of accident, was it?"

"No, no accident," he murmured. "It was done very deliberately by a certain man. A certain man who will pay for what he's done."

"Of course, sir, we must all pray for justice…" she began.

"We must make our own justice, Miss Quinzel," he interrupted. "For justice does not serve people like us. It serves the wealthy and the powerful, while the poor and the weak merely have to suffer. If we want justice, we must take justice into our own hands."

He put down the cup. "Wouldn't you agree?" he asked her.

"I…I don't know, sir," she said, slowly.

"Miss Quinzel, you of all people must know this is not a generous world," he murmured. "Nobody gives you anything in it, including justice. We must take what we want in it. All that we want. It took an accident to make me see that. Those who do no wrong can still have wrong done upon them. And should they just smile and laugh and accept it? Or should they be avenged upon their wrongdoers?"

She said nothing, staring at the floor. "Look at me, Harley," he whispered.

She looked up, stunned. "How do you know…"

"Look at me, Harley," he repeated, seizing her face in his hands.

She stared into his eyes and let out a sob. "Oh, Mr. Napier, it is you!" she whispered. "I knew it! I knew your clothes, and your voice, and your smile! But what in God's name happened to you…"

He kissed her suddenly and she gasped in shock, but didn't draw away.

"Mr. Napier!" she gasped at last when he released her. "What on earth has come over you? You were never so forward…"

"I nearly died, Harley," he whispered. "I was pushed into a vat of chemicals and I nearly died. And all I could think about was the things I hadn't done, the chances I'd never took…I'm not afraid of action anymore, and I'm not afraid of telling you how I feel. I want to be with you, Harley. I love you."

She beamed. "Oh God, Jack!" she gasped. "If you knew how long I waited to hear those words…"

"It's not Jack," he interrupted. "Not anymore. Jack Napier died in that vat of chemicals."

"Then…what should I call you?" she asked, slowly.

He grinned. "I was thinking something along the lines of…the Joker."

"The Joker?" she repeated. Then she shrugged. "Well, whatever makes you happy, I suppose."

"Everything makes me happy now, Harley," he murmured, smiling at her. "Everything."

He pulled her gently into his arms. "Do you still…find me handsome?" he whispered.

"Oh yes," she murmured. "I'm just so glad you're alive. I thought you might be dead, and I never would have got to tell you how I feel about you. We wasted so much time not daring to tell each other we wanted to be together. Let's not waste any more."

He kissed her again tenderly, and she returned it with passion, feeling happier than she had ever felt in her life.

"I need to tell you something," he whispered.

"Yes?" she murmured, expecting him to pour out his feelings for her in a torrent of romantic words.

"I murdered someone three days ago," he whispered.

She stared at him, shocked. That wasn't what she had been expecting at all. "What?" she gasped.

"I murdered someone three days ago," he repeated. "I stabbed her to death and then carved a smile on her face."

"Good God…why?" she gasped.

He shrugged. "It was fun."

She pushed herself away from him. "You don't find me handsome anymore, do you?" he murmured.

She was too stunned to respond. "Oh, Harley, I need you to understand," he whispered, taking her hands.

"Understand…what?" she stammered.

"That the world is a madhouse," he whispered. "And we are all lunatics locked up in it, forced to live in cramped cells and work ourselves to the bone just to survive. We are treated cruelly and contemptibly by the ones who think they're in charge of this madhouse, the privileged and the wealthy. Tell me, Harley, doesn't it strike you as madness? That you and I should be hated and scorned by an accident of birth, while men and women who were fortunate enough to be born wealthy stuff themselves with rich food and expensive clothing, while we slave to barely afford our rags and scraps? Why can nobody see the insanity of it? But there is a way we are all equal, and that is in death. That is the joke that life plays upon us. Rich or poor, monarch or pauper, all become dust under the great equalizer that is death. That's when we're all happy at last."

He stroked her hair back. "I have been called worthless, insignificant, and a criminal, all because I am poor. And so I'm finally proving them right. They're going to accuse us anyway, so we might as well have the fun of doing what we're accused of. And it is fun to do wrong, Harley. Nothing makes me laugh like it."

He cupped her face in his bone white hands. "From the moment I saw you…I loved you. So sweet, so innocent, so good. But you don't have to be good anymore, Harley. I'll still love you. And life's much more fun…when you're a little bad," he murmured, sliding an arm around her waist. She shuddered in delight as breath from his red lips teased her ear. "And when you're a little less innocent."

"Mr. Napier…what are you suggesting?" she gasped.

"Don't you ever get sick of being accused of things when you haven't done anything wrong?" he whispered. "People are disgusting. They think the worst of everyone, whether or not you've done something bad. I'm well aware of your virtue, Miss Quinzel, but preserving it won't stop everybody accusing you of being a loose woman. It's about time you enjoyed the thing they're going to accuse you of anyway, wouldn't you agree?"

"Mr. Napier, I cannot believe you!" she gasped, shoving herself away from him. "You come back here acting dreadfully forward, and then confessing to a murder which you perpetrated for fun, after all of which you suggest that we should…should…commit an act that only married couples should engage in!"

"Yes," he murmured. "It would be more fun to do it when we're unmarried. Society finds it so wrong, after all, and there is nothing like the thrill of doing something society considers wrong."

"I don't care!" snapped Harley. "We are not married, and I will not lie with any man who is not my husband! If I lose my virtue, I'll have nothing left!"

"You'll have me," he whispered, gazing into her eyes. She stared back at him, and he nodded slowly. "I'm not going to force you into anything, Harley," he murmured. "And so I will only apologize for my lewd suggestion, and wish you a good night."

She stared at him. "You're just giving up like that?" she demanded.

"Well, yes, you seem very certain…" he began, but she grabbed him, kissing his face repeatedly.

"No, I ain't gonna let you give up!" she whispered between kisses. "I can change my mind, after all – don't take much persuading!"

He chuckled, pressing her down on the bed.

Harley's rational mind was screaming at her, telling her she was crazy for feeling this way about an obvious madman. Whatever her feelings for Mr. Napier had been, this man was no longer him, and she should get as far away from this confessed murderer as possible.

But her body betrayed her thoughts, and truly she found the idea of being with a man so horribly wrong, a man who had killed, incredibly exciting. It was a kind of feeling she had never experienced before, she could never have imagined existed, and she was utterly incapable of resisting it. It was madness, from a rational point of view. But the irrational part of her didn't care. It just cared about letting this man do whatever he wanted to her. And she wanted to surrender to that madness, more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life.

And when the body wants something, the mind is powerless. It has only to submit, and to invent rational reasons, however objectively irrational they might be, to excuse the body's actions.

Harley just wanted this man. And she didn't care if she was crazy. At least they would be crazy together.


	4. Chapter 4

"I'm so pleased you could join us for dinner, Dr. Crane," said Bruce Wayne. "I'm looking forward to continuing our discussion at our last meeting after the play."

"Oh Bruce, do stop going on about that play!" sighed Harvey Dent, who sat next to Pamela Isley. "It wasn't that good."

"I must respectfully disagree with you, Mr. Dent," said Dr. Crane, as Alfred served them all their first course. "Personally I share Mr. Wayne's fascination with the story and the performance. But then I have experience of such things. In my work in Arkham, I frequently come into contact with cases who believe themselves to be possessed of multiple personalities. I'm working on a fascinating study at the moment who believes himself to be the incarnation of the Mad Hatter from Mr. Carroll's recent children's novel, _Alice's Adventures in Wonderland_. He is so convinced of his delusion that he dresses as the Mad Hatter, talks nonsense like the Mad Hatter, and searches for an Alice, like the Mad Hatter. The latter led him to making unwanted advances upon a young lady, to the dismay of her fiance, who called on our services. And now Mr. Tetch is getting the help he needs."

"Whether he wants it or not, I suspect," muttered Isley.

Crane smiled thinly at her. "A lunatic is not a rational being, Miss Isley, and therefore its own desires are of little interest. You cannot reason with the irrational, and you cannot leave them alone to make their own decisions. They are incapable of it."

"Many people say the same about women," retorted Isley. "And yet I still fight passionately for women's rights. What is your view on that subject, Dr. Crane?"

He was silent for a moment, sipping a glass of wine. "My experience is that women are more prone to madness than men, leading me to believe that mentally as well as physically, they are the inferior gender. They are not equal, and therefore undeserving of equal rights – after all, society cannot last if it is controlled by madmen. Or madwomen, if you prefer," he said, nodding at Isley.

"I assume you're unmarried, Dr. Crane?" asked Isley, smiling coldly back at him.

"I am unmarried, yes," he agreed.

"That is hardly surprising – no woman would tolerate a man who believes the entire female sex is on the brink of insanity," she snapped.

"Miss Isley, perhaps we can keep the conversation civil?" ventured Bruce, tentatively. "Dr. Crane is a guest in my home, and I would hate for him to feel unwelcome."

"It's quite all right, Mr. Wayne – Miss Isley merely demonstrates female passion, which is, in fact, the very factor that makes them so prone to madness," said Crane, smiling at her.

"It's also one of the factors I most love about her," spoke up Dent.

"Mr. Dent and Miss Isley are to be married in the spring," explained Bruce.

"Many congratulations," said Crane. "I'm sure you'll both be very happy."

Nobody could tell if he was being sincere or not.

"Back to the play," said Bruce, changing the subject quickly. "And the subject of insanity. It was unspecific in the origins of Jekyll's condition…what usually is the underlying cause of madness, Dr. Crane?"

"Oh, there's no simple answer to that, Mr. Wayne," replied Crane. "And no single reason. Madness usually results due to a variety of factors – hereditary influence, poor upbringing, violent trauma, frequently during childhood…"

"That…can drive a man to madness?" asked Bruce, slowly.

"It's not a simple cause and effect, Mr. Wayne," replied Crane.

"You're not a madman, Bruce," retorted Dent. "If that's what you're worried about."

"I'm not worried," replied Bruce, quickly. "I'm just…concerned that some of my actions might be influenced by irrational emotions…"

"Like what, enjoying over the top, melodramatic performances?" chuckled Dent. "It means you have no taste, not that you're mad."

"To my mind, you display no signs of erratic behavior," agreed Crane. "Besides, Mr. Wayne, men of our station do not tend to go mad."

"I wasn't aware that madness was a class issue," retorted Dent.

"No, not as such," agreed Crane. "But a man who is raised in good circumstances with a proper upbringing has much less reason to lose his sanity than a man whose life has always been difficult."

"I thought madness was not about reason," retorted Dent. "I thought it was something that couldn't be entirely explained or predicted. I suppose…any of us here could be stricken with madness at any time."

Crane chuckled dryly. "It doesn't quite work like that, Mr. Dent. It's not a sudden plague you can catch. There are subtle signs that build up over time, like Jekyll in the play. Signs that an untrained eye might not even be aware of. But nobody just snaps, and nobody goes from sane to raving lunatic overnight. Such a thing is simply not possible."

He took another drink. "If any of you are interested in observing the behavior of a madman, you are most welcome to visit me at Arkham. I could give you a tour of the hospital and introduce you to some of our inmates, and demonstrate our methods for curing them."

"I would certainly be interested," said Bruce, eagerly.

"I would certainly not," retorted Isley. "I've no desire to stare at unfortunate human beings locked in cages like animals at the zoo. You hose them down like elephants, don't you?"

"We only use cold water to shock the madness from the patient," retorted Crane.

"Has that ever worked?" asked Isley.

"Well, not yet," agreed Crane. "But the theory is sound."

Isley smiled thinly. "You gentlemen go. I, for one, would like to keep my dignity," she said.

"I understand that women are often reluctant to be educated," said Crane, nodding.

"On the contrary, Doctor, if we had the right to be, I am sure most of us would leap at the chance," retorted Isley. "I know I would be most interested in becoming a doctor someday."

Crane laughed again. "Yes, my dear," he agreed, smiling. "I'd say that's almost as likely as everyone in this room suddenly losing their sanity. It is simply not possible," he repeated, a note of finality in his voice.


	5. Chapter 5

A loud knocking on the front door roused Harley from a sound sleep. "You expecting visitors?" muttered Joker, as she stirred in his embrace.

"No," she murmured. "Too late for visitors. And the shop's closed."

She suddenly heard the familiar bell indicating that the front door had been opened downstairs. Then her eyes shot open. "Christ, it's the landlord!" she gasped, stumbling out of bed and grabbing her clothes, throwing them on hastily.

"Are you sure?" he asked, sitting up.

"Positive," she gasped, as she hurried to lace up her corset. "He's the only one with a key! But he doesn't usually drop by this late, and the rent's not due until…"

She paused. "It's the 10th today, isn't it?" she gasped.

He nodded, and she swore. "Christ, I lost track of the time, I was so worried about you! Oh, God in heaven, I don't have that kind of money!"

"He doesn't give you any leeway on the rent?" asked Joker.

"No," she muttered. "He's the most money-grubbing, penny-pinching, miserly man I've ever met! Folks call him the Penguin, because he's always dressed in a fine black suit and spats, and they make him look like one. He likes to flaunt his wealth, as well as hoard it, y'see."

She let out a frustrated sigh. "Gimme a hand with this, will you?" she demanded, gesturing to the strings on her corset. "It's impossible to dress quickly in a corset!"

"Can't say I've ever tried it," chuckled Joker, helping to lace her up. "But I remember it was quite difficult to undress quickly in one too."

She couldn't suppress a giggle, and turned around to savor a brief kiss when he was done. The romantic moment was spoiled by an angry knocking on the bedroom door.

"Miss Quinzel! Make yourself decent and come to the door at once!"

"God in heaven," muttered Harley, throwing on the rest of her dress. "Don't let him see you," she said, pushing Joker out of the way as she headed toward the door. She took a deep breath, forced a smile, and opened it.

"Mr. Cobblepot! How unusual for you to call at this late hour!"

"Not unusual when one of my tenants is past due with her rent!" snapped Oswald Cobblepot, dressed in his usual finery and top hat, glaring in fury at her. "I presume you have some feeble excuse ready for me?"

"Uh…yes, sir," agreed Harley. "My lodger went missing, so he couldn't pay me the rent money…"

"A likely story!" interrupted Cobblepot. "Anyway, if that were the case, why did you not write me to inform me of your circumstances? I might have been willing to give you an extension."

"I…was worried about Mr. Napier, sir, and I lost track of the time," replied Harley. "But he's returned now, so I'll ask him for the rent tomorrow and it should be in your hands by the end of the week at the latest…"

"I will not be made to wait for money owed to me!" squawked Cobblepot, his face reddening in fury. "Where is this Mr. Napier? I will speak to him now and demand his share of the rent, while you fetch me yours!"

"Mr. Napier is…is…out again," stammered Harley, glancing over at Joker. "He's a cab driver, y'know, and constantly busy…"

"I'll wait here for his return, then," snapped Cobblepot. "I'll be in the parlor, Miss Quinzel. I expect a pot of tea, some fresh pies, and your rent money presently."

He stormed off down the hall, and Harley shut the door, letting out a sigh. "God, what am I going to do?" she gasped, turning to Joker. "I don't suppose you have any money on you?"

He shook his head slowly. "I don't like the way he talks to you," he murmured, a strange look in his eye as he fingered his cane. "And I'm thinking maybe we should kill two birds with one stone, as it were."

"What do you mean?" asked Harley, puzzled.

He grinned, revealing his white teeth. "I mean teach Mr. Cobblepot a lesson in manners, while seeing that the debt you owe him magically disappears."

"How…would that be possible?" asked Harley, slowly.

He just smiled at her. "Oh…God, Mr. J, you can't!" she gasped. "Not here! We'd…we'd have to dispose of the body…it'd be a bloody mess…stains and blood and…and bits everywhere!"

"You leave that to me," murmured Joker, patting her on the head.

"Mr. J…" she began desperately, but he had already dressed in his usual purple shabby finery and left the room.

Harley's bedroom, which the couple had moved to due to her double bed, a family heirloom which, like the pie business, had been passed down from her father, led out onto the parlor, and so Harley had no chance of intercepting Joker. He strode straight from her room into the parlor, where Mr. Cobblepot was waiting. He looked up in surprise to see a man emerge from Harley's bedroom, and such an unusual-looking man at that.

"Mr. Cobblepot?" inquired Joker, extending a hand to him and smiling.

"Er…yes," he stammered. "And you are?"

"I'm the Joker, although you might recognize another name of mine," he replied. "Jack Napier."

"Ah…Mr. Napier," Cobblepot said, slowly. "You're Miss Quinzel's…lodger."

"Indeed I am," he agreed. "Also her lover. She lied to you a moment ago when she told you I was out. I was, in fact, in her bedroom, and heard the whole conversation."

"I…see," said Cobblepot, warily, glancing from Harley to Joker. He cleared his throat. "You must understand, Miss Quinzel, that I do not approve of immorality of…that nature on my premises."

"Oh, I'm absolutely certain that nothing that goes on between Miss Quinzel and me can be any business of yours," chuckled Joker. "As long as we keep the place tidy and neat, that should be your only concern. You're the landlord, not the fun police after all!"

"Yes, and any activities going on in my property are my business," snapped Cobblepot. "After all, I wouldn't want any sort of crime occurring on my premises, and to me, a crime includes activity of an immoral nature. I am certain that if I took my case to a court of law, I would have every right to evict Miss Quinzel for such uncivilized behavior, especially since she is late in her rent."

"Ah yes, her rent," agreed Joker, smiling. "Are you aware of what sort of back-breaking labor Miss Quinzel has to submit herself to day after day to run this pie shop? Are you aware of the kind of drudgery that accompanies the constant baking and selling of pies? Collecting the meat from the butchers, grinding it up, and baking it all into pastry – it's a fascinating process. Miss Quinzel gave me a tour very recently, and it was most enlightening. Perhaps you'll let me show you, while Miss Quinzel makes a pot of tea for us."

"Oh, very well," grumbled Cobblepot, rising from his chair. "Though I don't really see the point of this. You will not distract me from my purpose here, which is to collect the rent money owed to me."

"Oh, don't you worry, Mr. Cobblepot," murmured Joker, smiling. "You'll get what's coming to you."

He winked at Harley as he led Cobblepot out of the parlor and toward the kitchen, where stone stairs led down to the baking cellar. "Watch your step," said Joker, leading the way. "And your head," he chuckled, nodding at the dip in the ceiling. "Wouldn't want you to come to any accidental harm, Mr. Cobblepot."

"It's as dark as a tomb down here," muttered Cobblepot, feeling his way along the stone wall.

"That's because the baking oven's not lit, and won't be for a couple hours," explained Joker. "Before dawn, though. Harley has to be up nice and early every day, and she keeps the shop open until ten at night. That doesn't leave much time for fun, Mr. Cobblepot, or for any sort of life at all, really."

"Yes, life is difficult for everyone," snapped Cobblepot, adjusting his diamond cravat pin.

"Oh yes, it's a mad world, Mr. Cobblepot," agreed Joker. "A mad, mad, mad, mad world. Where a man like you, who does no work, demands money from a woman who spends her days slaving away for pennies. Where a man like you can judge the way she lives her life and tells her what she is allowed to do, and what she is not allowed to do. Where a man like you has the power to control anything and anyone you want. But there is one thing you can't control, Mr. Cobblepot – one thing nobody can control in this mad world."

"And what is that, Mr. Napier?" demanded Cobblepot.

Joker grinned at him. "It's the Joker," he murmured, reaching behind his back for the meat cleaver on the wall. "My name is the Joker."

Harley was standing in the parlor, and heard a scream, abruptly cut off, followed by hysterical laughter. She raced to the kitchen and peered down the steps into the darkness, but she could see nothing, and heard nothing else but that crazy laugh.

Then she heard a single pair of footsteps climbing the stairs, and then the Joker was revealed in the light from the kitchen, covered from head to foot in blood.

"Harley, how would you feel about trying a different type of meat in your pies tomorrow?" he asked, grinning.

"What kind of meat?" she asked, slowly.

He held up a bloodied, black top hat and chuckled wildly, "Penguin!"

"Oh good God, Mr. J!" she gasped. "It's bad enough that you killed him without disposing of his remains in such a disrespectful way!"

"He's fat enough that he'll save you a few week worth of meat, which would be a substantial financial saving," said Joker.

"Well, that's true," agreed Harley. "It would be economically sound. But it just seems so ghastly."

"Why? He took from the less fortunate. Seems only fair that he gives a little of himself back to them at last," chuckled Joker.

He kissed her. "You decide. I can always haul him over to the river, but that'll be a couple hours work. Or we can just dump him in the grinder, turn on the oven, and then head back to bed for a few more hours."

It wasn't a difficult decision for Harley. "I'll light the oven – you grind the body," she said, heading for the stairs.


	6. Chapter 6

"Welcome to Arkham Asylum, Mr. Wayne!" said Jonathan Crane cheerfully, as he met Bruce Wayne and Harvey Dent at the gate. He shook their hands and then led them up the gravel pathway through the grounds of the asylum to the building itself, a large, impressive structure which, to Bruce's eyes anyway, looked fairly intimidating.

"Well, at least the inmates are welcomed into a comfortable, non-threatening environment," said Dent, dryly, as they went through the double doors to see a huge, cold, stone entrance hall, and further on, barred, bare cells more fit to house animals than humans.

"You can't cure anyone by coddling them, Mr. Dent," retorted Crane. "Real progress requires real pain, and exorcising mental demons is one of the most difficult challenges the human mind will ever face. Victory can only be achieved through suffering."

"I agree, Dr. Crane," said Bruce, nodding. "Suffering and sacrifice are what build strength and character. It is what makes a man a man."

"Remind me to tell Pamela that," chuckled Dent. "Maybe she can use it in her campaign for equal rights."

"Please do not mention things like that in here," said Crane. "We have enough mad ideas floating around in the air already."

"Dr. Crane, we're ready to begin the experiment," said an orderly, approaching him.

"Oh, excuse me for a moment, Mr. Wayne, Mr. Dent," said Crane. "I just have to attend to a patient. I'll be right back to introduce you to Mr. Tetch, the man I told you about at dinner. I won't be a moment," he said, heading off with the orderly.

"What on earth are we doing here, Bruce?" demanded Dent when Crane had gone. "If you want to see freaks, there's a sideshow in the East End I can take you to. They have a man who looks like a crocodile."

"How do you know that?" asked Bruce.

"Pamela was attending a rally down that way and I got bored," replied Dent. "So I went for a walk and passed the most ghastly little sign advertising freak viewings for a penny. And so I thought when in Rome, and entered, and truly there were some very disturbing specimens there. But the man who looked like a crocodile was the most impressive. He was a huge brute, all scales and sharp teeth. And he ate a whole chicken, uncooked, in one mouthful."

"Harvey, I don't believe in exploiting the less fortunate for entertainment purposes," snapped Bruce.

"So what are we doing here?" asked Dent.

"This is for educational purposes," retorted Bruce.

"I don't understand your obsession with freaks and madmen anyway," said Dent. "Some might accuse you of having a morbid temperament, Bruce."

"God forbid," said Bruce, dryly.

"It's unhealthy, Bruce," said Dent, firmly. "You don't want to end up all alone in some cave poking your nose into the lives of freaks and monsters and not having a life of your own."

Bruce was about to respond when Crane returned. "Everything all right?" asked Dent.

"Oh yes, I've just administered some experimental therapy we're testing out on a patient, a Mr. Edward Nygma," said Crane. "A new form of treatment I'm championing."

"What kind of treatment?" asked Bruce.

"Well, as you say, Mr. Wayne, a patient must subject himself to a certain amount of pain and suffering in order to build strength," said Crane. "My duty is to help patients strengthen their minds, and I do this by subjecting their minds to certain stimulants that prey upon their deepest fears. It's a sort of fear gas of my own invention."

"And frightening people helps them?" asked Dent, skeptically.

"In small, gradual doses, yes," replied Crane. "It helps them face their fears, and builds a strong, solid mind. As long as they're not subjected to too much, too soon, it should help rather than hinder their mental growth. Now let me give you the tour…"

There was a high-pitched scream from down the corridor, followed by multiple shrieks of terror. "That's it, Mr. Nygma, keep at it!" said Crane, encouragingly, as the patient, Mr. Nygma, writhed and screamed on the floor of his cell. "Battle those demons!"

"What is his form of madness?" asked Bruce.

"Oh, he speaks constantly in riddles," replied Crane.

"That doesn't sound too dangerous," said Dent.

"Have you ever had to deal with a man who speaks constantly in riddles?" asked Crane. "Believe me, it's for the best that he's subjected to this kind of treatment. Ah, now here's Mr. Tetch, who I was telling you about! How are you today, Mr. Tetch?"

A small, timid-looking man stared out from the cell in front of them. "Why is a raven like a writing desk?" he asked, quietly.

"I'm sure Mr. Nygma could tell you, Mr. Tetch, but he's in treatment at the moment," said Crane, as another scream came from the neighboring cell.

Tetch buried his face in his hands and began muttering to himself. "Alice felt that this could not be denied, so she tried another question. 'What sort of people live about here?' 'In THAT direction,' the Cat said, waving its right paw round, 'lives a Hatter: and in THAT direction,' waving the other paw, 'lives a March Hare. Visit either you like: they're both mad.' 'But I don't want to go among mad people,' Alice remarked. 'Oh, you can't help that,' said the Cat. 'we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad.'"

He looked up at them, whispering. "'How do you know I'm mad?' said Alice. 'You must be,' said the Cat. 'or you wouldn't have come here.'"

"Yes, very good, Mr. Tetch," said Crane. "We'll see some other patients now. You see the extent of his condition, poor fellow," he sighed, turning away from Tetch and leading Bruce and Dent out of the cell block, with Nygma's screams echoing behind them. "He only speaks in quotations from the Wonderland books now. Terrible deterioration, but I'm hoping my fear treatment will help him too."

The front door of the asylum banged open suddenly, and a policeman entered. "Excuse me, Dr. Crane?" he asked.

"Yes, what is it, Detective Bullock?" asked Crane.

"Sorry to bother you, sir, but we need your help," said Bullock. "We're investigating the murder of a…street woman down by the docks, and we have a witness who…doesn't seem to be entirely of sound mind. She's waiting outside – I wanted her to give her testimony in the presence of a man who could determine whether she actually had any solid leads, or if she was just babbling madly."

"Please bring her in," said Crane. Bullock nodded, heading toward the door. "Do excuse me, Mr. Wayne and Mr. Dent – this does seem to be an inconvenient day for a visit," said Crane, turning back to them. "Perhaps we can rearrange?"

"Of course, Dr. Crane," said Bruce. "Good luck with the witness."

He and Dent headed toward the door just as it was thrown open again, and several policemen entered, dragging a very attractive woman after them. "Get your hands off me!" she shrieked. "I won't be dragged in here and committed! I won't! I'm not mad!"

"Nobody is trying to commit you, Miss Kyle," snapped Bullock. "We just want Dr. Crane present when you give your statement."

"I'm not mad!" the woman repeated. "I saw what I saw! I saw the man who left with Jenny, and I know he was the same man who killed Jenny, because he was the very devil himself! I only glimpsed his face once, but it was all white, like a ghost, and his eyes were wild and staring, and he had a smile like a demon of the pit! He had the laugh of a demon too, the laugh of a devil tormenting the soul of the damned! Hollow and mocking and evil, with an evil mirth to it! He was dripping wet, as if he had risen from the river, and the water that clung to him had a strange, green glow…"

"Yes, Miss Kyle, I'll send the entire police force out at once hunting for a water demon!" chuckled Bullock.

Bruce froze on the spot. "Excuse me," he said, stepping in front of the struggling woman. "But did you say…green, glowing water?"

"That's right!" she snapped. "I didn't imagine it, I'm not a liar, and I'm not mad!"

"That remains to be seen, I think, eh, Bruce?" chuckled Dent, heading for the door.

Bruce said nothing as the woman was dragged past him, but as he left the asylum, he had a deep foreboding in his heart. He had seen green, glowing water recently – he had seen a man fall into it. He had thought the man had died, but now it seemed that he hadn't. It seemed that something much worse had happened to him.


	7. Chapter 7

"I never thought I'd see the day!" exclaimed Harleen Quinzel, as she locked the door on her last customer. She turned to the Joker, beaming at him as he emerged from the parlor. "Every pie sold! Who knew Mr. Cobblepot would be such a delicacy?"

"Oh, people like the taste of something familiar, Harley!" chuckled Joker. "And man devouring man has been standard practice in Gotham for a long time now! We're just taking the joke a little more literally!" he laughed.

"I just never guessed cannibalism would be good for business," said Harley, shrugging, as she took the empty trays back to the kitchen. "Course I never imagined myself capable of actually being complicit in a crime like that. But I enjoy surprising myself. And nobody ever told me how profitable crime could be," she added, pulling a large bundle of money out of her purse. "I dunno why people always try to warn you off it. It helps you get rich, and it's a lot of fun," she said, kissing Joker.

"Yeah, but it'd be less fun if everyone did it," said Joker. "Part of the thrill is the illicitness of the whole thing, the wickedness and naughtiness of the act. Wouldn't you agree, Harley?" he murmured, approaching her from behind and sliding his arms around her waist.

"Mmm, puddin', I'm trying to wash the pie trays," she murmured, unable to suppress a smile.

"Wouldn't you rather be doing something a little more fun, pumpkin pie?" he murmured, grinning. "Like me?"

She giggled, dropping the trays into the water and turning around to return his kisses. "All right, but you'll have to help me with my corset again!" she murmured.

They continued to kiss, gradually heading in the direction of the bedroom, when a knock sounded on the shop door. "Now who on earth could that be?" muttered Harley in annoyance.

"Police! Open up, Miss Quinzel!" shouted a voice from outside.

Panic leapt into Harley's eyes. "Oh God…they can't know, can they?"

"No, they can't, pumpkin pie," he murmured, kissing her forehead soothingly. "But Mr. Cobblepot's absence has probably been noticed by now. They probably just want to ask you when you last saw him. And when was that, sweets?"

She gazed up at him. "Last…last month," she stammered.

"Pumpkin, you have to be a better liar, for my sake," he murmured. "I can't go talk to them – my appearance would incite too many questions. You have to talk to them, and you have to make them believe you. Or they'll drag us both off to prison and hang us. But I know you can do it, sweets. I have faith in you."

He kissed her. "Be my bad girl," he murmured, pushing her gently toward the shop door.

She gulped, but nodded firmly. Taking a deep breath, she approached the shop door and opened it.

"Inspector Gordon, Detective Bullock!" she said, forcing a smile. "What a pleasant surprise! Do you bring news of Mr. Napier?"

"We have an actual crime to deal with now, Miss Quinzel," retorted Bullock, shoving his way past her into the shop.

"Indeed. You won't be aware of this, Miss Quinzel, but your landlord, Mr. Cobblepot, has gone missing," said Gordon.

"Oh no!" said Harley, hoping she looked surprised and concerned. "How very upsetting!"

"When was the last time you saw him?" asked Gordon, taking out a pad of paper.

"Um…last month," she said, casually. "When he was collecting my rent."

"And what day was that?" asked Gordon, writing something down.

"The 10th. He was always very prompt to collect it on the day it was due," replied Harley.

"And when the 10th came this month, and Mr. Cobblepot didn't come to collect your rent, you weren't at all concerned?" asked Gordon, looking up at her.

She shrugged. "I was hardly going to complain, was I?" she asked, forcing a laugh.

Gordon continued to study her, and she felt her heart speeding up in fear. "Um…won't you sit down and have a pie, gentlemen?" she asked, ushering them toward the parlor. She glanced in to make sure that the Joker was safely in her room, with the door shut, and then beckoned the policemen into the chairs by the fire while she put the kettle on. "It's a nasty night out there, and you must be cold and dispirited. I know I am, hearing this about Mr. Cobblepot. He was a good man, sir, an honest man. And an impeccable dresser. A rare thing these days, sir…"

"Has Mr. Napier reappeared at all?" interrupted Gordon. "Have you heard anything else about him?"

"Mr. Napier? No, I haven't," she said. "Sadly."

"And have you managed to find another tenant for your room?" asked Gordon. "Only it seems quite a stroke of luck that your lodger disappears, leaving you without money for rent, at the same time that the man who comes to collect your rent also disappears."

"Strange coincidence," agreed Bullock, nodding.

Harley looked from one to the other of them, hoping they couldn't hear the pounding of her heart. "But…but surely you can't think that I…"

Both men laughed heartily. "No, Miss Quinzel, we don't think that!" chuckled Gordon. "We don't think you're a murderess stalking the foggy night streets of Gotham and killing people! It's just possible that if there's any sort of foul play involved in both of their disappearances, it centers around this area, since your lodger lived here, and Mr. Cobblepot might have been on his way here to collect your rent when he disappeared. Have you seen any suspicious characters lurking around at all?"

"Uh…no," she stammered. "No…nobody out of the ordinary."

She left them for a moment and headed down to the baking cellar, where a new batch of pies was prepared for the morning. She didn't know why exactly, but something about their dismissal of her as a criminal, of them laughing at the very idea, angered her. These men didn't even believe she was competent enough to run a pie shop, let alone hide a crime.

She grabbed two pies and headed back up the parlor. "Here you are, sirs," she said, placing them down in front of them. "Eat up, and I'll get your tea."

She poured the kettle and said, lightly, "I do hope you find Mr. Cobblepot soon. It would be a real tragedy if something happened to a man like him, rich and upstanding and everything. He's far more important than Mr. Napier, after all."

"Of course he is," retorted Bullock, devouring the pie. "Mr. Cobblepot owns several pieces of property and several businesses around Gotham. He's not some insignificant cab driver like Mr. Napier. There could be some serious problems with Gotham's industry and economy if something's happened to Mr. Cobblepot."

"I've told Detective Bullock not to worry unduly," said Gordon, taking a bite of his own pie. "I'm sure Mr. Cobblepot is around somewhere, probably closer than we think."

"Probably," agreed Harley, watching them eat the pies.

"These are excellent pies, Miss Quinzel," said Bullock, surprised. "Much better than the last time we were here. Did you change the recipe?"

"I added some new ingredients," she replied. "Some different herbs and spices."

"Well, they're excellent," agreed Gordon. "Do you have any more for sale? We should take some back to the station with us."

"Of course, Detective," said Harley. "How many would you like?"

The policemen bought a dozen, finished up their tea, and bade her goodnight. Harley waved them off, and then shut and locked the front door, heading back to her bedroom.

The Joker was seated on her bed, polishing his cane blade in the light from the moon. He grinned as she entered. "I take it we're not about to be dragged off to jail?"

She shook her head. "They don't suspect me at all. Don't think me capable of committing a crime. But I sold them a dozen pies filled with Mr. Cobblepot's remains."

Joker laughed hysterically, sheathing the blade back into the cane. "Excellent, my dear," he murmured, taking her by the shoulders and kissing her. "Now get some rest. You have an early morning of baking ahead of you."

"Aren't you coming to bed with me?" she asked, as he headed for the door.

"No, Harley, not just yet," he said. "I have some work to do."

"Work? What kind of work?" she asked.

"Well, the Bat hasn't responded to my first murder, so I'll have to give him another one," said Joker. "Clearly he's slow on the uptake, but then you can't expect great intelligence from a man who dresses up in a bat costume. I might have to make this one a little more obvious to draw him out. I'm going Bat-baiting!" he chuckled.

"Oh…well, I'll miss you," said Harley, sincerely.

He giggled, kissing her again. "If you want to wait up, I'm sure I'll be in the mood for romance after I get back from a nice, bloody murder," he murmured, grinning.

She grinned back, kissing him. "See you then. Have fun, puddin'."

"I always do, Harley girl!" he chuckled, heading out into the foggy night. "I always do!"


	8. Chapter 8

The next day, Bruce Wayne was on his way to see Dr. Crane again when he paused in his stroll toward the asylum at the shout of a newsboy. "Read all about it! Read all about it! Smiling Slasher strikes again, calls himself the Joker – leaves signed note for Batman!"

Bruce hurried over to the boy and paid him a penny for the paper, scanning the front page story. _The body of another street woman has been found, with the same slashed smile carved onto her face as before. A ghastly note was left with these remains, written in red ink (or that is certainly what the police hope!)_

_ Dear Batman,_

_ There will be a lot more happy faces unless you catch me! But I'll never stop smiling until I see you again!_

_ Love,_

_ The Joker. _

_ With the police seemingly powerless against this madman, Gotham can only hope that the mysterious Batman will bring the murderer to justice, and soon, before panic engulfs the city._

Bruce read the article with a heavy heart, and slowly walked the rest of the way to the asylum lost in thought.

"Good morning, Mr. Wayne," said Dr. Crane, who was also glancing over the newspaper as Bruce entered his office.

"Good morning, Dr. Crane," said Bruce, putting the paper down on the desk and taking a seat. "How was the witness?"

"Well, not mad," replied Crane. "She obviously exaggerated what she saw – no man has green hair and bright red lips and bone white skin, after all. But she probably saw a fairly pale man, maybe wearing a wig and makeup for some insane reason. I have no doubts about the murderer's state of sanity," he laughed. "This Joker is clearly a madman."

"A murderer would have to be," agreed Bruce.

"Well, not necessarily," replied Crane, closing the newspaper and placing it down on his desk. "It all depends on the motivation for the murder."

"You don't think anyone who would kill a fellow human being has to be insane?" asked Bruce, puzzled.

"Certainly not," replied Crane. "Are soldiers mad? Or if a man kills in self-defense, is he mad? Or if he kills in a fit of passion, can that be considered temporary madness? Or if he sacrifices life in the interests of science? These are not madmen, Mr. Wayne. But when a man kills solely for pleasure, for no other reason than for his own personal gratification, then yes, he is mad. Especially when he mutilates the body in such a horrid fashion. There can be no reason for such brutality."

Bruce was silent. "Do you ever…doubt your own sanity, Dr. Crane?" he asked.

"No. Should I?" he asked.

"I don't know. Only…I do sometimes," murmured Bruce.

"You're far from a raving lunatic, Mr. Wayne," said Crane. "I hate to disappoint you, but in my professional opinion, you're quite normal."

"Well, you're not entirely aware of…all the facts of my life," said Bruce, slowly. "I have done things…that many people would not consider respectable."

Crane gave a dry chuckle. "Well, so have most respectable people, Mr. Wayne," he said, smiling. "Or didn't you see the same play I did? Even the most upstanding, the most virtuous people have a darker side."

"I don't just mean…that I've done immoral things," said Bruce. "But as a direct result of my actions…many innocent people are suffering now."

Crane leaned back. "I'm not going to pry into your personal affairs, Mr. Wayne," he said. "But my advice as a doctor would be that if people are suffering as a result of your actions, then you have a duty to make amends, and take whatever action you must to undo the harm you have done."

Bruce nodded slowly. "Yes. I suppose I have a responsibility to do that."

"The person who really needs to step up to their responsibilities is this Batman," said Crane, picking up the paper again. "If this Joker is acting like this in order to get his attention, the Batman has a duty to stop him before he kills again. And unlike the police, the Batman might actually have a chance of catching this Joker."

"Why is that?" asked Bruce.

"Because only a madman can catch a madman, Mr. Wayne," replied Crane. "They know how each other think. And the Batman is most definitely mad – what sort of diseased brain would think dressing up in a bat costume and fighting crime would be a good idea? I hope he finds this Joker soon, and then this city can go back to normal without being held in the thrall of costumed freaks."

Bruce nodded again. "Dr. Crane, do you remember the name of the witness you saw yesterday?"

"Why yes, I took down her name and address just in case she should ever need to spend some time in this facility," said Crane, rifling through some notes. "Um…Miss Selina Kyle, proprietor of _The Cat's Cradle_, which I believe is some sort of drinking establishment in the East End…"

"I'm sure I can find it," said Bruce, standing up. "Thank you, Dr. Crane. I'm sorry I can't stay for the tour today, but I've just remembered some business I have to attend to urgently. Good day."

"Oh…good day, Mr. Wayne," said Crane, staring after him. He shook his head as the door closed, returning to the paper. "A little abrupt, perhaps, but the man's no more mad than I am," he said firmly.


	9. Chapter 9

The moment Bruce Wayne entered _The Cat's Cradle_, all talking and laughing ceased as every patron turned to stare warily at him. And Bruce knew why. Though he had deliberately dressed down, something about his clothes and bearing instantly marked him as a gentleman, which was obviously an unusual sight in the poorer parts of the city.

He tried to avoid making eye contact as he headed over to the bar. "Pardon me, but I'm looking for a Miss Selina Kyle?" he asked.

"You found her," retorted the woman behind the bar, turning to face him. He was once again struck by her exceptional beauty – she had long, black hair and piercing green eyes that studied him suspiciously. "Just why are you looking for her?"

"You probably don't remember me, but I was at Arkham Asylum the other day when you spoke with the police," said Bruce, extending his hand. "My name is Bruce Wayne."

She just stared back at him, ignoring his hand and continuing to clean her glass. "I didn't ask who you were – I asked why you were looking for Selina Kyle," she retorted.

"Um…well…I'm very interested in hearing your statement that you gave the police about the…man you saw," he said, lowering his voice, which nevertheless still echoed around the silent room. "Who murdered…the street woman."

There was a bustle in the tavern suddenly as people all headed hastily for the door. It slammed shut, leaving Bruce and Selina alone.

She put down the glass. "Thanks very much," she snapped. "You've driven away all my business!"

"I'm sorry," stammered Bruce. "I didn't know they'd react like that…"

"They think he's the devil, and that talking about him will bring him down upon us" she snapped. "Superstitious bunch of idiots."

"Well, when I heard you ranting in Arkham, I thought you were convinced he was the devil," said Bruce.

"I don't believe in actual devils, Mr. Wayne," she retorted. "But there was something unnatural about the man I saw. Anyway, I was panicking because I thought I was going to be forcibly committed to that horrible place against my will, so forgive me if my rantings were a little desperate."

"Dr. Crane does very good work," said Bruce. "And he can recognize a real lunatic when he sees one. You had nothing to fear."

Selina snorted. "The rumors are that there's plenty to fear when Dr. Crane is involved. It's said he's not so interested in curing patients as frightening them. And you think that's very good work?"

"I think it's a method of therapy," replied Bruce. "We have to take desperate measures to cure desperate people, Miss Kyle."

"It would probably be kinder to just kill them, Mr. Wayne," she retorted.

"No, killing people is never the answer," said Bruce, firmly.

Selina shrugged. "If the police are ever competent enough to catch the man who killed Jenny, I'd have no objection to them hanging him. A creature who could do that to another human being doesn't deserve to live. Not that the police are focused on that anymore anyway. During my interview, the commissioner told them to put the case on hold and turn their attention to the disappearance of some toff. Some guy with a funny name – Oscar Cabbagepatch or something."

"Oswald Cobblepot?" suggested Bruce, who was more acquainted with the social elite. "He's missing?"

"I guess so," retorted Selina, returning to cleaning glasses. "Anyway, his life's obviously more important than that of a couple of street women, so the police are looking for him now, instead of this Joker."

"Well…maybe that's why this city needs Batman," said Bruce, slowly. "So that he can handle the crimes the police can't."

Selina snorted. "That lunatic isn't coming back, Mr. Wayne," she snapped. "If he even ever existed in the first place, which I doubt. He's about as real as devils."

"I think he's going to come back and stop the Joker," said Bruce, firmly. "He's going to be the hero this city deserves."

She smiled without humor. "You're a little old to be believing in fairy stories, aren't you, Mr. Wayne? Heroes don't exist."

"Villains do," retorted Bruce. "Why wouldn't heroes?"

She smiled again, genuinely this time. "I suppose there's some truth in that," she replied. "Though it seems to me that this city is full of villains. Even if this Batman wants to be a hero, he has a lot to contend with. He might need some help."

"Maybe he'll find some," replied Bruce. "He might inspire some - once everyone notices what he's doing, others might want to follow him. Anyone can be a hero, after all."

She laughed. "You do live in a dream world, don't you, Mr. Wayne?" she asked. "But then maybe I could afford to if I was as rich as you."

"Anyone can be a hero," he repeated, firmly. "Money has nothing to do with it. Only courage, strength of spirit, and a willing heart. And a desire to do good, to help where it is needed. And a willingness to fight, no matter how black the odds seem against you."

Selina found herself being moved by his words, almost despite herself. Her poor upbringing in the rougher areas of Gotham had long ago extinguished any joy or optimism she had about the future. Or so she had thought. But something about Bruce's own unwavering belief in his words was infectious, and she almost caught herself believing in them too.

Then she forced herself back to reality. "Well...let me tell you about the man I saw with Jenny," she said.

She gave him the same details she told the police, and Bruce left the tavern shortly after, looking around for a cab. Selina watched him from the window, wondering what exactly it was about him that made her feel so hopeful, and more than that, happy.


	10. Chapter 10

"Puddin', what's wrong?" asked Harley, as she awoke a few nights later to see the Joker sitting on the edge of the bed, glaring out the window into the dark streets of Gotham.

"He's not coming, Harley," he growled.

She yawned, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "Who's not coming, puddin'?"

"Batman," he muttered, not turning around to face her. "I've killed twice – three times including Cobblepot. What's taking him so long? Why hasn't he found me yet? Why hasn't he come?"

"You don't really…wanna be caught by Batman, do ya?" asked Harley, slowly. "I mean, if he found out it was you who killed those girls, and Mr. Cobblepot…we could both go to jail, and probably end up at the end of a rope."

"I'm doing all of this for him!" cried Joker. "Otherwise what's the point? He's the only one in this goddamn city who gets the joke!"

"What about me, puddin'?" asked Harley.

He turned to glance at her. "Do you get the joke?" he asked, quietly.

"What joke?" she asked.

"If I have to explain it to you, you don't get it," he snapped. "Batman started all this. He thought dressing up in a costume and taking the law into his own hands was a good idea. So I'm just giving him the punchline to the joke he started. And it looks like even he doesn't get it."

He sighed, rubbing his temples. "I just have to try harder," he muttered. "Give him some publicity even he can't ignore. But what? What kind of joke will even the thick-headed Batman get?"

He climbed out of bed, heading into the parlor. Harley followed him, watching him as he lit the fire and put the kettle on. "You want a pie to go with that?" she asked.

He grinned. "Do we have any non-Cobblepot ones? I don't like the taste of Penguin."

She giggled, kissing his cheek. "I'll find one for you," she said, ruffling his hair and heading to the cellar.

She returned a moment later carrying a pie. "Will pork do?" she asked.

"Mmm, I usually prefer pumpkin pie," he murmured, kissing her as she put it down in front of him. She pulled herself into his lap, continuing to kiss him, but he shoved her gently away.

"I need to think, Harley," he muttered.

"Can't I help you do that?" she asked.

"Yeah, but not by distracting me," he replied. She nodded, taking a seat across from him and pouring the tea.

Joker took a bite out of the pie, chewing thoughtfully. "What would the world be like, Harley?" he asked. "If everyone took matters into their own hands by dressing up in costumes, like the Batman. It would be a madhouse, wouldn't it?"

"Yep," agreed Harley, nodding.

"Not that the world isn't a madhouse already," continued Joker. "The Batman is just taking the whole thing one step further – showing the world how silly it is, with all its rules and order and laws. He's showing them what a joke they all are. But the world isn't laughing. I have to make the world laugh, Harley. By making myself laugh, and the Batman laugh, and everyone in this city laugh. I need a joke that's better than a freak in a bat costume. I need to outdo his joke."

"Doncha think baking people into pies is a pretty good joke?" asked Harley. "We could keep doing that - making people literally devour each other. Plus it's good for business..."

"Yes, but it requires explanation to make it funny, and I don't like explaining jokes," replied Joker. "I need something that's obviously funny. People are gonna just see it and get it and laugh, the way you do when you see the Batman. The only thing you can do when faced with that freak is laugh."

He finished the pie, sucking the crumbs from his fingers. "Hmm…I can see why the Penguin pies sell better," he said. "That was kinda bland, Harley."

"Don't blame me," she retorted. "You can barely get the ingredients for a decent gravy or meat these days, which is why Mr. Cobblepot was such a boon. People used to call 'em the worst pies in Gotham, but they don't anymore," she said, smugly.

"Well, like I said, I prefer the taste of my pumpkin pie," he murmured, pulling her down onto his lap and kissing her again.

She beamed. "Y'know, it seems to me, Mr. J, we gotta find out who the Batman is first if we wanna pull any kinda joke on him," she said, stroking his hair back. "He's obviously pretty well off and wealthy – nobody else would have the time to dress up in costumes and beat people up, for one. And you can tell he's probably rich and privileged, believing he's above the law and that rules don't apply to him. I mean, just think, if everyone did what the Batman did, there'd be utter chaos. Madness in the streets."

Joker's eyes lit up. "That's it, Harley!" he gasped, seizing her shoulders. "Madness in the streets!"

"What about it?" asked Harley, confused.

He kissed her. "I need to plan, of course, but it shouldn't be too difficult! Oh pooh, you're an inspiration!"

"Yeah? Feel like thanking me properly, Mr. J?" she asked, grinning at him.

"Not right now – I have to plan!" he snapped, shoving her off his lap. "Oh, soon, Harley, this whole town will get the joke, and they'll all die laughing! I guarantee it!"

And he headed up to his room, laughing hysterically.


	11. Chapter 11

"I'm telling you, Bruce, this rally will do you some good," said Harvey Dent. "Bring you out into society again – you've seemed to be avoiding it since the play. You're all brooding and moody and solitary. Plus you always like supporting just causes, and Pamela's cause is just. You do believe in equal rights for women, don't you?"

"Of course I do," retorted Bruce, his arms folded across his chest as they took Dent's carriage across town. "But I don't tend to like mobs. They can get out of hand too quickly."

"The police will be on hand, of course," said Dent.

"Even they have limited power if people start rioting," replied Bruce. "I just don't want anyone to get hurt. Especially not Miss Isley."

"Pamela can take of herself," retorted Dent. "She's had her share of rotten fruit thrown at her, and she's given it right back. She's not afraid of a little vegetation – in fact, I believe she quite enjoys it. It shows she's getting to them."

"And you're not at all concerned about her, putting herself in danger like this?" asked Bruce.

Dent shrugged. "I admire what she's doing. If you believe strongly in something, Bruce, you have to fight for it. No matter how many people are against you, and no matter how dangerous it is. Would you rather I tried to stop her fighting for what she believes in? Because it wouldn't do any good, and I wouldn't do it anyway."

"No, you're right," agreed Bruce. "I'm sorry, Harvey, I'm just a little…tired."

"You look it," said Dent, nodding. "Haven't you been sleeping at night?"

"I've been working," replied Bruce.

"On what?" asked Dent.

"A project," replied Bruce, shortly.

Dent said nothing, but cleared his throat. "Look, I was down in the East End the other night to see where those girls were murdered. Bit gruesome, perhaps, but that's just my temperament. Anyway, I saw you…vacating a place of very ill repute called _The Cat's Cradle_."

Bruce looked at him. "Yes? What of it?"

"Well, between friends, there's no shame in visiting a den of inequity, Bruce, but you should really go out and just find yourself a nice girl," said Dent, gently. "You know those kinds of women often have certain diseases…"

"I'm not visiting prostitutes!" snapped Bruce. "I also have a certain morbid curiosity in those murders, and I was talking to Miss Selina Kyle, who owns the establishment, and who claimed to have seen the man who committed them! That's all!"

"There's no need to be so defensive," retorted Dent. "I'm just trying to help, Bruce."

Bruce said nothing, glaring at him and then back down at the floor. They were silent for the rest of the carriage ride.

…

"Anyone who thinks they have the right to deny women their basic voices belongs in that building across the square!" shouted Pamela Isley, gesturing to Arkham Asylum as she stood on the raised platform, addressing the sea of people in front of her, many of whom were glaring at her in contempt. "Women have a right to be heard every bit as much as men do – they are equal in every way…"

There was booing at this and cries of "Nonsense!" "Get off the stage!" "Tart!"

"Why should we be discriminated against because of an accident of birth?" she continued. "I say accident only because we have no control over it, not because being female is a negative state to live in. Or at least, it should not be in a civilized world! But because we are born female, we are treated as second-class citizens, our basic rights and freedoms are denied, and we are forbidden from making our own choices, sold off into marriage like slaves and forced to spend our days waiting on men and producing children! We have no freedom, no choice, and if we speak out against this, we are shouted down and called names and told to be silent! I will not be silent until every woman is granted the same rights as men, of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness!"

There was more booing at this, and Bruce looked around at the surrounding crowd edgily, many of whom seemed eager to riot. The police lined the area, watching the crowd threateningly, but Bruce was afraid they wouldn't be enough if things really got out of hand.

And then the fruit started being thrown. Several tomatoes hit Pamela squarely in the face. As Dent rushed on stage to protect her from more missiles, the police spotted the men who had thrown them, and they were immediately subdued, beaten with sticks and knocked to the ground. There was more booing at this – Bruce could feel the tide turning against the law now too, and he forded his way through the crowd toward the stage. He wanted Pamela and Dent out of here now, before chaos could ensue…

And then he glanced up into the sky, and his attention was suddenly riveted by a strange object. It appeared to be some sort of hot air balloon – Bruce had seen them displayed in the Gotham World Exposition a few months back. Although this one had been painted to look like the giant, smiling face of a clown.

And then everyone's attention was suddenly drawn to the balloon, as the figure inside it began to speak through a megaphone, which sent his strange, unstable voice echoing down to them.

"Greetings, Gotham! This is the Joker here! I know up until now you've only read about me in the paper as some kinda Jack the Ripper figure, but that's so last century! And really, who cares about the lives of a few prostitutes? Not Batman, that's for sure, since he hasn't shown up yet to stop me! So I'm upping the ante and committing crimes worthy of a man of my greatness! Not just a few street women, but hundreds of men, women, and children all at once! I don't discriminate, after all. And we'll see how the Batman feels about that, won't we, folks? He can't avoid me forever! We'll see how he deals with madness in the streets!"

There was a hysterical burst of laughter, and then the screaming started as flaming bombs were dropped from the balloon onto the crowd below.

Panic instantly ensued, and Bruce struggled to keep his feet against the sea of people racing to find shelter from the bombs. "Harvey!" he shouted. "Pamela!"

He had reached the area just below the stage, and saw Pamela and Dent hurrying toward the stairs. They never made it.

A bomb fell right onto the stage, exploding it in a mess of smoke, sparks, and splinters. Bruce was knocked back by the force of the blast and struck his head on the stone pavement. Just before he blacked out, he thought he saw clouds of green smoke, and the distant echo of hundreds of voices in hysterical fits of laughter.


	12. Chapter 12

Bruce woke up to a familiar face. "Dr. Crane?" he asked.

"Just relax, Mr. Wayne – you've had a very difficult day," said Crane, applying some bandages to his head. "But you're one of the lucky ones who've pulled through. Most of the others in that square weren't so fortunate."

"What…happened?" stammered Bruce, trying to remember the details of the attack as he struggled to sit up. "Where am I?"

"You're in Arkham, Mr. Wayne – it was the nearest hospital on hand after the attack," explained Crane. "Those caught in it needed immediate medical attention. Those bombs contained a very deadly toxin, something I've never seen before…"

"What kind of toxin?" asked Bruce.

Crane sighed. "From what I can tell, it infects the victim with a kind of uncontrollable laughing gas, that makes them laugh themselves to death. They die with a horrible grin on their face. It's truly the product of a highly disturbed but rather brilliant mind."

"Where's…Mr. Dent?" asked Bruce. "And…Miss Isley?"

Crane was silent. "They are both alive," he said at last, standing up. "But I think it's time you were left to rest and recover your strength, Mr. Wayne…"

"Are they all right?" he pressed. "Can I see them?"

"I would not advise that, Mr. Wayne," said Crane, firmly. "They are in no fit state to receive visitors, and you are in no fit state to exert yourself. You had a concussion, and you've been raving deliriously…"

"What have I said?" asked Bruce.

"Nothing that makes any sense to me," retorted Crane. "Now just rest up here for a few days…"

"No, I have to get out there!" said Bruce. "I have to stop Joker…"

"I'm sure the police are doing all they can," replied Crane. "And it is their job, after all…"

"They can't stop him," interrupted Bruce. "Only one man can stop him."

"And even if you knew who the Batman was, you're in no fit state to go find him," snapped Crane. "I'm sure he'll read about the incident in the papers and rush to catch the Joker. In the meantime, you must stay here and recover. I do not like using force in particular, but if you will not obey me voluntarily, I must restrain you for your own good."

"Dr. Crane, it's both for my own good and for the good of Gotham that I get back out there!" insisted Bruce. He took a deep breath. "You see…I am the Batman."

Crane nodded slowly. "Of course you are, Mr. Wayne," he said, heading for the door. "Poor man's rife with delusions," he muttered at the guards. "Keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."

"Yes, Dr. Crane," said the guard.

"Dr. Crane? Where are you going? Dr. Crane! Dr. Crane!" shouted Bruce, as Crane left him, shutting and locking the door to behind him. He headed down the hall, past the screams and groans of pain from both inmates and patients, and then entered another cell.

Harvey Dent lay in bed, gazing blankly up at the ceiling, his eyes glassy and apparently unseeing. One half of his face was covered in bandages, and a doctor was just working to remove them.

"How's he doing?" asked Crane.

"See for yourself, sir," said the doctor, peeling the last of the bandages away. Crane had seen many unpleasant sights in his time, so managed to keep his reactions under control when he saw that half of the man's face had literally been burnt off.

"Has he responded at all?" he asked, quietly.

"No, sir," said the doctor. "Hasn't had any sort of reaction since he recovered consciousness."

As if in response, Dent slowly raised his hand up to his burnt flesh, and let out a gasp. "Don't touch it, Mr. Dent…" began Crane.

"What's happened to my face?" gasped Dent, ignoring him. "What the hell…has happened to my face?!"

"Just try to relax…" began Crane, but Dent sat up suddenly, grabbing him violently around the collar and raising his fist.

"Lemme see it!" he growled.

Crane managed a nod, beckoning to an orderly, who brought him a hand mirror. Dent grabbed it from him and then shoved him away, looking at his own reflection. He roared in sudden fury, slamming the mirror onto the ground and shattering it.

"Who did this?!" he roared. "Who's responsible?!"

"The…Joker dropped bombs at the rally…" began Crane.

"He thinks this is a joke?!" roared Dent. "Because I ain't laughing! I ain't laughing!"

He began breaking furniture, and Crane called more orderlies in to subdue him. "Give him a sedative – he'll need to remain here, at least in the near future," he murmured as he hurried out of the room.

He continued down the hall to the female wing of the hospital, and entered another cell.

Pamela Isley lay in bed, barely breathing, surrounded by doctors. "What's her progress?" asked Crane.

"There's something wrong, Dr. Crane," said one of the doctors, turning to him. "There's some sort of odd reaction going on with her blood – maybe it's to do with the toxin, but I don't know why…"

He choked as something suddenly wrapped itself around his throat, wrenching him back away from Pamela. The others turned in horror to see that it was trail of ivy which had curled itself through the bars in the window and had seemed to have taken on a life of its own.

"My God…the plant…" stammered another doctor, before he too was seized around the throat by the ivy and thrown against the wall.

Crane stared in disbelief from the plant to the patient, who was slowly opening her eyes. They looked about her in fury. "Men," she hissed. "Get away from me!"

Two more doctors were ripped back by the plant, and that was enough to convince Crane. "Everybody out now!" he shouted, holding open the door.

He managed to shut and lock it just as the last doctor got out, and he barely made it. The vines of ivy, which had grown in number, had been reaching out to seize them like the tentacles of a squid.

"What in God's name…was that, sir?" gasped one of the doctors.

"I have no idea," murmured Crane. "But she'll need to be kept here too. We can't send…a monster like that back out onto the streets. There's enough madness and chaos out there already with this toxin, and this Joker, and this Batman. We can't let Gotham become a city of freaks and monsters."

"Are you sure we can stop it, sir?" asked another doctor.

"I don't know," murmured Crane. "But we have to try."


	13. Chapter 13

Bruce sat in his cell as night drew in, feeling completely powerless and despondent. He had never felt powerless since his parents' death, and he had resolved never to feel that way again since then. And so added to his already miserable feelings was the feeling of failure, of letting himself and his city down.

He wondered if anyone had told Alfred where he was, just so his butler wasn't worrying. Not that he shouldn't be worried that he was locked up in Arkham – he wondered how long he was to be kept here, how long until Crane deemed him fit to be out and about. Maybe never, if Crane didn't believe he was Batman. Maybe Crane would just prove what Bruce had always suspected – he was not a sane man. Maybe he would be kept here forever, forced to endure horrible therapy like the rest of these poor souls that he heard screaming around him even now.

"Mr. Wayne?" came a voice suddenly.

He looked up, wondering if he was hearing things. The voice seemed to be coming from the window of his cell, which was open and unbarred, but far too high to climb out of. There was no way anybody could have climbed up to it…

But he was startled to see a face appear at the window, the masked face of a cat. Bruce wondered if he were actually going mad, but as the figure climbed into the cell and removed the mask, he saw a very familiar face that reassured him he was not.

"Miss Kyle?" he whispered, stunned. "What on earth are you doing here? And dressed like…a cat?"

"I came to rescue you," she said, shaking her hair out. "I found some evidence that I thought would help with the case, but when I got to Wayne Manor, your butler told me that he'd received a message that you'd been confined in here after the attack on the square. But you can't be, with the Joker on the lose. This city needs the Batman."

"And…why do you think that I would be him?" asked Bruce, slowly.

She grinned. "I'm not stupid, Mr. Wayne. You spoke so eloquently about the things he does and his reasons for doing them – I can put two and two together. And I wanted to show you that you can inspire other people, just like you hoped, so I also adopted a costumed disguise. I am the Catwoman," she said, proudly.

"I…see," he stammered. "Well, how are we to get out of here? Even if you managed to climb up that wall, I very much doubt both of us can climb down…"

She held up a set of keys. "One of the guards here is a frequent client at my establishment. I purloined these one night thinking they might be useful someday. And I was right, as usual."

She unlocked the door and then pulled her mask on again. "Come on. And keep an eye out for the guards."

"Wait," said Bruce, grabbing her arm. "My friends are in here too, Mr. Dent and Miss Isley…I can't leave without knowing that they're all right."

"We really don't have time for a visit - it will double our chances of getting caught," protested Selina.

"I can't just abandon them here," he insisted. "Please, Miss Kyle."

She sighed. "I deserve to be locked in here too – I must be out of my mind," she muttered. "Let's go find them."

Fortunately the night shifts in Arkham were far more relaxed than the day shifts, and far less manned. Using caution, they were able to tiptoe safely down the asylum corridor without being seen. "Tell me when you see 'em," she whispered as they peered into the cells.

"There," said Bruce, pointing. Selina unlocked the door, and Bruce crept into the cell, where Dent sat in the shadows, staring at the floor, and flipping a coin over and over again in his hand.

"Harvey?" whispered Bruce. "It's Bruce. I'm getting you out of here."

He didn't respond – he didn't seem to hear him, but instead whispered something inaudible to himself.

"Harvey?" repeated Bruce.

"Man is not truly one, but truly two," he whispered. "It is the curse of mankind that in the agonized womb of consciousness, these polar twins should be continuously struggling."

Selina had followed Bruce inside, and now stared at Dent. "What's he talking about?" she whispered.

"It's from the play we saw," whispered Bruce. "About the duality of man…"

Dent looked up at that moment, and Bruce started back to see his burned face revealed in the moonlight. "It's no play," he whispered. "It's the truth. But we blind ourselves to it. I am a man who has done things that our society would not consider respectable – that if known, would damage my reputation…yet why should it? When we all are guilty of the same offenses, only we pretend not to be? We pretend to be so much better, and really we're all just…two-faced."

"Harvey…what happened to you?" gasped Bruce.

"It was meant to be a joke, but I think I understand it now," whispered Dent. "Every joke hides some truth, and this…is the truth his joke revealed."

"Harvey, come with me, and we'll get you some help," promised Bruce.

"I don't need help," whispered Dent. "Not anymore. But I will come with you. I have to help others see the truth too."

He stood up, following Bruce out of the cell. "Now we just have to find Miss Isley," Bruce whispered to Selina.

She was about to respond when they suddenly heard the noise of bending metal screeching from down the hall. This was followed by screams and cries, and then they could only stare in horror as what appeared to be a giant plant tore down the corridor, ripping doors off their hinges and setting the inmates loose.

"What in God's name…" began Bruce.

"Duck!" shouted Selina, shoving him to the ground. The plant bulldozed through the wall in front of them, sending stone and mortar crashing to the ground. Bruce straightened up from the rubble, coughing and looking around for Selina and Dent.

And then he saw the strange figure approaching them, the strange but nevertheless familiar figure. "Miss…Isley?" he gasped.

She was almost unrecognizable – she wore only her corset and underskirt, which revealed her green skin to startling effect, her red hair loose and flowing down her back. Her cold, green eyes fixed on him and she said, "It's Ivy now. Poison Ivy. And I am deadly to men."

"Pamela?" whispered Dent, staring at her in shock.

"H…Harvey," she stammered, the fury in her eyes replaced with sudden pity. "What…happened to you?"

"Miss Isley, get back to your cell now," said a firm voice. They turned to see Dr. Crane striding down the hall.

Pamela locked eyes with him, her face and eyes twisting in fury again. "Don't tell me what to do, male!" she hissed. "I will not be kept a prisoner of your patriarchy any longer! I will not stay in a cell, either a literal or a metaphorical one, fashioned by men!"

"You are not well, Miss Isley," said Crane, sternly. "You have to stay here under medical supervision…"

"I will not be poked and prodded and stared at all day by men!" she shrieked. "I am perfectly well – I am better than I have ever been in my life! I am free, and I will not be caged again! Not by you or any man!"

"Dr. Crane, look out!" shouted Bruce, as the plant tendril smashed its way through the wall again. It knocked Crane into a cell and the plant wrapped itself against the door, locking him in.

"See how you like it!" she shrieked. "See how you like being locked up like an animal! See how you like your own therapy!" she shouted, as another plant seized a canister, spraying gas into the cell.

She then turned and strode away, heading down the stairs toward the front door of the asylum. "Pamela!" shouted Dent, racing after her.

"Harvey…" began Bruce, about to run after him, when he heard screaming from Crane's cell and immediately changed his plans, grabbing the plant which held the door shut and ripping it apart. Selina raced to help him pull open the door.

"Hold your breath!" shouted Bruce. "Don't breathe in the gas!"

Selina obeyed, taking a deep breath as she and Bruce wrenched open the door. Bruce raced inside and saw Crane unconscious in the corner – he picked him up and gestured for Selina to follow him out of the building. Dent and Pamela appeared to have disappeared.

"Go to Wayne Manor," said Bruce to Selina. "I'll meet you there once I've dropped Dr. Crane off at the hospital, and you can tell me what you've found."

She nodded. "And…Miss Kyle…" he stammered, grabbing her arm.

She turned to look at him. "Thank you," he whispered.

She smiled, gazing up at him. He looked down at her, slowly bringing his mouth down to hers.

"He…needs a doctor," she stammered, pulling away before he could kiss her.

"Yes…of course," said Bruce. "I'll…see you soon, Miss Kyle."

She watched him hail a cab, and then pulled her mask back over her face, leaping into the alley and disappearing into the shadows.


	14. Chapter 14

"Thank goodness you're home, sir!" exclaimed Alfred, as he opened the door to Bruce hours later. "How are you doing?"

"I'm fine, Alfred," whispered Bruce. "But I appear to be the only one who still is."

"I'll get you a drink, sir," said Alfred, as Bruce collapsed into a chair in the living room.

"Is Miss Kyle here?" he asked.

"No, sir," he said, surprised. "She was here earlier tonight, and I told her you were in Arkham, and she raced off without a word. I did not assume we would be seeing her again."

"She rescued me from Arkham," said Bruce. "And I asked her to meet me here after I took Dr. Crane to the hospital."

"What's wrong with Dr. Crane, sir?" asked Alfred, handing him a drink.

Bruce sipped it. "He's been exposed to his own fear gas, and the effect is…horrible. His mind is broken, I'm afraid beyond repair."

He downed the glass. "And that's not all," he said. "Harvey's face has been…burned, and he seems to be raving like a lunatic, and Miss Isley…"

He trailed off, burying his face in his hands. "She's become some kind of…monster. God, this is all my fault, Alfred! I created the Joker! I'm responsible for all that's happened because of him!"

"Sir, you mustn't blame yourself," said Alfred, soothingly. "You didn't mean for any of this to happen."

"No," he whispered. "But it's my responsibility all the same. And I have to live up to that."

He stood up. "Please tell me you didn't obey my orders and destroy the Batman equipment."

"In a rare act of insubordination, sir, I did not," replied Alfred, lightly, pressing a button on the clock which swung open to reveal the Batcave. Bruce smiled, clapped his faithful butler on the shoulder, and then took a deep breath, heading down into the darkness.

…

Batman landed on the rooftop, looking out at the gaslit city of Gotham. He was heading for _The Cat's Cradle_, hoping something hadn't happened to Selina to stop her from meeting him.

"I thought you'd never show," said a voice behind him. He turned to see Catwoman smiling at him. "I like the outfit," she commented.

"Why didn't you meet me?" he asked.

"I wanted to do a little more digging," she retorted. "And you'll be glad I did. Follow me."

They jumped along the roofs, two dark shadows among the fog and smog of the city.

"There!" said Selina, stopping at last and pointing down to a pawn shop. "That establishment has recently come into possession of a few pieces of jewelry – a diamond tiepin, a ring, and a pocket-watch, engraved to be the property of one Oswald Cobblepot."

"Any idea who brought them in?" asked Batman.

"Yes, the owner recalled, with a little persuasion," said Catwoman, grinning as she glanced at her nails. "It's just down the road here…"

They landed on the roof across from _Quinzel's Hot Pies_. "The man in the pawn shop said it was the woman who runs this place," said Selina. "Harleen Quinzel. I'm betting she probably knows what happened to Mr. Cobblepot, and the sooner that crime is solved, the sooner the police can go back to focusing on the Joker."

"Well, let's go see what she has to say for herself," said Batman, grappling over to the roof of the pie shop. He held out his hand to Selina and she took it. Pulling her close, they sailed over the street together and landed on the roof. Batman put a finger to his lips as they leaned over the skylight, peering inside the shop.

Harley was trying on the new outfit the Joker had bought for her – he had told her he wanted her to be his costumed partner in crime, Harley Quinn, and she was more than happy to oblige him. The dress was a very fetching red and black with diamonds, complete with a black mask and white face paint.

"How do I look, puddin'?" she asked, twirling around.

"Mmm, I could just eat you up, my scrumptious little cupcake," he purred, taking her in his arms and kissing her. "Oh, I can't wait for Batsy to find us, so we can see you in action! He should be here any second now…"

The skylight shattered as both Batman and Catwoman dropped into the room, poised for action. Harley shrieked, hiding behind the Joker, who just grinned at them, laughing.

"Speak of the devil, and he shall appear!" he chuckled. "Though I can't say I'm familiar with your pussy, but the more the merrier, right?"

"We meet at last, Joker," growled Batman.

"Oh, we've met before, Batman," replied Joker, grinning. "Maybe you don't remember, because my appearance has changed a bit. But I owe it all to you, buddy!"

"Why did you kill those women?" demanded Batman. "And attack the square? And what have you done with Mr. Cobblepot?"

Joker giggled hysterically. "Why? Why did you decide to dress up in a bat costume and fight crime? Why did your kitty cat do the same? Why are some people born with the ability to change the world and some people born barely able to get by in it? Why is the sky blue and the grass green? Because they are. No point asking why, is there? As for Mr. Cobblepot, Harley, why don't you fetch these people a pie?"

She nodded, eyeing them warily as she headed for the cellar. "The real question is, what took you so long to find me?" asked Joker. "I wouldn't have had to kill all those people if you had just hurried up and been a better detective, y'know. I expect the police to be useless bunch of incompetents, but I thought you'd be smarter than them. I see I was wrong. But you're here now, and that's what matters."

Harley emerged with a pie, which she placed into Batman's hand, and then quickly hid behind Joker again. Batman looked from the pie to Joker, puzzled.

"I don't understand. What does this have to do with Mr. Cobblepot?"

Joker giggled. "Take a bite and see if you can find him!" he chuckled.

Batman dropped the pie to the ground in horror. "You…baked him into pies?" he gasped.

"Delicious, nutritious, and cost-effective," said Joker, nodding. "It was just common sense, Bats."

Batman reached for handcuffs on his belt. "As if you weren't already in enough trouble for murder…this is going to see that you're both locked away for a very, very long time."

Joker chuckled. "I don't think so, Batsy. I really don't."

He suddenly struck at Batman with the hot poker Harley had brought up from the cellar. Batman fell back, roaring in pain, and Selina rushed to see to him while Joker seized Harley's hand and raced out into the street.

"It's fine – just a scratch," said Batman, pushing Selina gently away. "Let's get after them."

"They're heading toward the warehouses!" shouted Selina as she and Batman raced down the deserted street after Joker and Harley. "On the river!"

"You follow them – I'll try to cut them off!" shouted Batman, grappling up to the roof again. He saw the pair racing down toward the dock warehouses and flew after them, his cape spreading behind him like a pair of wings.

He landed on the warehouse roof to hear a strange rumbling from underneath him. The the roof exploded, sending him crashing toward the ground. He grappled onto a neighboring building just before he hit the cobblestone, staring back at the explosion and watching as the clown hot air balloon emerged from it.

He felt a hand grab him, helping him onto the roof. "Come on," Selina whispered, bounding up on top of the balloon. Batman struggled to his feet, shooting his grappling hook onto the basket as the balloon soared higher into the sky.

"I think we're being weighed down by an inconsiderate rodent, Harley," said Joker, smiling down at Batman. "Doesn't he have wings of his own?"

Batman heard the screech of metal, and then he saw the Joker draw his sword cane, slashing at the rope that held Batman. Batman grabbed on to the bottom of the basket as the rope gave way. He saw that the balloon was heading upriver, and realized with a lurch that they were on a course toward city hall.

Then he saw Joker hanging upside-down from the basket in front of him. "Hi, Batsy! Boy, you get a headache doing this too much, doncha?" he chuckled. "Is that why you're always so grim, too much sleeping upside-down? Do me a favor and hold this for me, would ya?" he giggled, tossing a lit bomb at him.

Batman threw it away from city hall, hitting the river below. "Oops, clumsy, have another!" laughed Joker, throwing another bomb at him.

"Mr. J…there's a cat trying to deflate the balloon!" shouted Harley from above.

"Hang on, Bats – I'll be back in a second!" said Joker, pulling himself back into the basket as Harley slashed at Selina with the sword cane. "Harley, be careful…" began Joker, but his warning came too late.

Just as Selina tore a hole in the balloon with her claws, Harley tore another one with the sword cane, sending the deflating balloon plummeting toward the ground. Joker grabbed Harley's hand and they both jumped out over the river, and Batman followed them. He managed to grab Joker around the collar, dragging him toward the shore. He heard Harley shriek as Selina grabbed her, and they met on the river bank, slapping both Joker and Harley in handcuffs.

Selina smiled at him. "Well done, Catwoman," murmured Batman.

"Thanks," she murmured. "But I'd prefer a little reward rather than your thanks," she murmured, sliding a finger down his chest.

"What, exactly?" asked Batman, thinking he probably knew.

Selina grinned, and then kicked Joker in the crotch, punching him across the face. "That," she said, sauntering off with Harley screaming after her. Batman couldn't suppress a grin as he hauled them both off to the police station.


	15. Chapter 15

"Mr. Wayne," said Miss Selina Kyle as Bruce entered _The Cat's Cradle _several months later. "What a pleasant surprise!"

"I just wanted to see you in light of the…news," he said, holding up the newspaper, which printed the headline _Joker Ruled Insane – Sent to Arkham Asylum. _

"It's a shame they aren't going to hang the bastard," agreed Selina, cleaning a glass. "Or his little slut. But that's justice for you."

"At least they'll be in good company," commented Bruce. "With Dr. Crane and Miss Isley and Mr. Dent all in there, and all bearing him a grudge, I doubt he'll be smiling for long."

"You never know with crazy people," retorted Selina. "I'm sorry your friends…aren't going to recover."

"Well, there's always hope," said Bruce, with more confidence than he felt. "Although I can't help feeling that it's…Batman's fault for them all putting on these identities – The Scarecrow and Poison Ivy and Two-Face…"

"Then Batman will put it right, won't he?" she asked, smiling. "With Catwoman's help, if he'll let her."

Bruce managed a smile. "He would be…most grateful for it."

She smiled back, and he cleared his throat. "Miss Kyle, would you care…to join me for dinner some evening at Wayne Manor?"

"I'd like that very much, Mr. Wayne," she said. "Assuming you won't be embarrassed to be seen with…someone like me."

"Miss Kyle, I would be honored," he said, bending down to kiss her hand. "I'll see you soon."

He left the tavern as the sun set, watching it sink into the river and dye the water a bright red. It was a scene of beauty and peace and stillness, and Bruce took a deep breath to savor it.

And then he heard the cry of a newsboy. "Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Mass breakout from Arkham Asylum – Joker on loose again! Police appeal for Batman's help!"

Bruce sighed, hailing a cab and heading for home. It was going to be a long night.

**The End **


End file.
